


Love Song in C Minor

by wayfared



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biphobia, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Gay Keith (Voltron), Homophobia, Japanese Keith (Voltron), M/M, POV Lance (Voltron), Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, The slowest of the burns, but it's dealt with and plot important, i never know what to tag! so i'll add more later as they come up i guess, this whole thing is an ode to bi lance and the beauty of fake relationship aus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-07-01 08:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 80,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayfared/pseuds/wayfared
Summary: Sendak pauses and glances between Keith and Lance. He nods at Axca, who pulls out one more paper.“This is our solution. A fake romance between Keith Kogane, upcoming lead inLove on Daibazaal, and Lance McClain, leading man of Voltron.”The silence that overtakes the room is deafening. Keith freezes and Lance’s jaw drops when Axca lays the paper down in front of them. Across the top is a mock headline:All You Need to Know About Hollywood’s New Darling Couple: Lance McClain and Keith Kogane.Lance wakes up single with a hangover and goes to bed in a relationship with a stress migraine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic in Google Docs is "The Fake Relationship AU of my DREAMS." I wanted to write one and fit in as many tropes as possible, and now it's gotten a bit out of hand and blown beyond my intention. I wanna thank my friends for reading this beforehand and being my encouragement. Big big thank you to my beta [Emma](http://glowsticktoothless.tumblr.com) for being my absolute savior in sentence structure and everything else. 
> 
> I'm really, really enjoying writing this because fake relationship aus are my life blood, so I hope you enjoy it as well!

This is how it's supposed to go:

The stagehand trades Lance's signature striking blue electric guitar for his acoustic, the one his father bought him all those years ago for his first gig at his sister’s quinceañera. It rests comfortably against his chest, just like the stage lights on his face and the microphone at his lips.

Those stage lights blind him from the audience, but he knows in the back of the general admission section is the love of his life. She—

Wait, pause. It _used_ to be a she. When Lance imagined this scenario at the tender age of ten, clutching the guitar in his inexperienced hands, he was damn sure about that one. But the quarterback in high school changed it real fast when Hunk dragged him to a game and he shook his hair out of a helmet. Oh, man. _Men_. And women! Anyway.

He knows in the back of the general admission section is the love of his life. They're maybe a little flustered, in awe with Lance's last song — one that shows his excellent range and vocal control and maybe includes an awesome guitar solo. As the last notes still ring out and the stagehand trades the guitars, they're unknowing of what's about to happen. Lance cocks a grin to the audience and steps up to the microphone again.

"Madison Square Garden, you've been great so far," he says, the words rolling off his tongue with unpracticed ease. The crowd screams, and he winks back. For dramatic flair, a girl faints at the barrier. "But I have one song to play that's not on the set list. I hope the band doesn't mind if I sing something I wrote last week." They don’t.

The stage lights swivel and dim until the only visible scene on the stage is Lance, his acoustic, and the microphone. In the audience, the love of his life looks up at the change. Lance's played this set a million times, but this is new!

He strums the first chord, G Major. (It doesn't have to be G Major specifically, but Lance read somewhere that a G Major was one of those romantic chords. Or maybe the progression was romantic. Anyway, it's one that ten-year-old Lance can play.) The lyrics, a string of metaphors about finding sunshine in the darkness and the symbolism of a rose, flow from his lips with immaculate tone and pitch, supported by pure emotion.

The love of his life perks up. They're leaning against the back barrier of the section, lost among the crowd that watches in complete awe. But, because this is the love of his life, Lance finds them immediately. He sings the line about [some romantic shit, fill in later], and they make eye contact.

And they understand. How much Lance loves them, and how much they love him back. This song isn't for the audience, it's for them. And here Lance is, on stage with only a guitar and raw talent, serenading them. _Them._ The love of his life.

In sync, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, leaving a pathway between them and Lance. Lance reaches the bridge, a slow section with special lyrics that leave no other person that can fill the meaning. They walk through the parting, nerves jumping and heart full.

When they reach the stage, the butler at Lance's every bidding helps them onto the stage. As the last chords of the song fall over the arena, they fall in love with him too.

"[Insert Name Here]," Lance says, voice bursting with overwhelming affection, "I love you. I wrote this song to tell you something. I—"

"Lance!" a high-pitched voice screeches from the crowd. Lance huffs, but he knows that absolutely no one can ruin this romantic moment!

"You're the love of my life," Lance continues, taking them by the hands. "And I—"

"Lance, pay some fucking attention!" the voice comes again.

"Holy shit, I'm trying to say something here!" Lance snaps, whipping around to face the audience. "I—"

"LANCE! The tailor wants to know if you're okay with the changes he made! Get your ass off the couch!"

A fan hurls a velvet decorative pillow from the audience and smacks him square in the face.

"Pidge!" Lance growls as he fumbles with the pillow now in his hands. When he brings it down, he’s no longer in Madison Square Garden, but the stupid tailor’s shop, receiving an earful from Pidge. "Coran banned throwing pillows!"

"Yeah, except you were zoned out, and Tyler the Tailor _asked_ you something," Pidge replies from her spot on the platform in the middle of the room, waving her glitter-sleeved arms.

"Sorry," Lance huffs. "Sorry, I was just...”

Hunk pats him on the shoulder as he sits up. Always sympathetic, that Hunk.

“All good, buddy,” he says, although Coran will probably disagree. “You had a long night yesterday.”

Lance’s cheeks burn at the reminder of last night as he rolls off the couch and shuffles to the platform. Tyler the Tailor immediately presses a dark purple blazer into his arms. Oh yeah, last night. On one hand, he should be embarrassed that last night even happened anyway. Being seconds away from a panic attack over an article on Roar Magazine about his stupid sexuality is beyond embarrassing. On the other hand, it provides an excellent cover to not expose his errant daydreaming.

It’s not daydreaming, though. Four years into Voltron, and Lance is surer than ever that that particular fantasy will become a reality. He just has to find a willing participant.

Lance should probably say something else about his sexuality.

It’s been three days since Lance McClain of the pop band Voltron came out as bisexual. Three days since the pap photos of Lance on a private side street with a boy he can’t even remember hit the tabloids, and three days since the emergency meeting where Lance decided he was done with all this shit, all this hiding.

Sendak was understandably pissed, but he relented. He set up the meeting with the magazine. Hunk and Allura held his hands the entire time, and Pidge vowed to bite the interviewer’s head off if they said the wrong thing.

They did, but Hunk held her back just in time. The article published yesterday, and the counter-articles got published after that. And since three days ago, it’s been morning reviews of Internet reactions, updates from Coran on who said what and how it was said (although Lance suspects it’s not everything he’s heard), and wildly switching between fervent scrolling through social media and shutting off his phone altogether.  

So, there’s the update on Lance’s life. His heart still hammers when he wakes up each morning and remembers _oh yeah, the world knows that_. But then his friends, his bandmates, jump onto the bed, and Lance feels the cords restricting his chest loosen.

Metaphorically and physically, as the tailor unwraps the measuring tape from his chest.

“What is it this time, Tyler?” Lance asks. “Did the gym help? Are my pecs finally enough to get the girl?”

Tyler falters and doesn’t reply, glancing away to the mirror Lance reflected in instead.

“Er. Or the boy. Or the people outside the gender binary,” Lance mumbles. Right. Tyler knows that. “It looks good, Tyler. Red carpet ready.”

“Smooth one,” Pidge says with a yawn from where she now lounges on the plush velvet dressing room couch. The glitter blazer hangs neatly on the rack, and now she’s free to scrub around in her ratty hoodie all she pleases.

“Pidge,” Hunk warns.

“Relax, Hunk. I can admit, it wasn’t my best line,” Lance says. He steps off the raised platform and flops down again beside him, throwing his own skinny legs over his thick ones. Damn, maybe he _should_ go back to the gym. “Besides, what’s the point of being out if I can’t make jokes about it? Right, Pidge?”

Pidge answers his high five without looking away from the DS. Two voices emerge from the store adjacent to the dressing room, and Lance looks up to see Allura and Coran entering. He whistles at her floor length evening gown, an ombre purple falling in sheets and accenting her waist just how she likes.

“Do you really think so?” Allura asks, pulling at the fabric.

“You know you don’t need my opinion,” Lance says. “But _yes._ ”

“Just exquisite,” Coran adds. “And perfectly matches the rest of the outfits. Really, you four will be a picture at your first Grammy’s. Speaking of, we need another emergency team meeting before you step out onto the carpet…”

Lance’s fingers carding through Hunk’s hair halt, and Tyler the Tailor pauses in his seam-checking of Allura’s dress. Right. They all know what this will be about.

“I know it’s not the most enticing topic, but Sendak sent over a list of—”

“ _Ugh._ What did he say? If anyone asks about my hookups, tell them I’m staying celibate ‘till marriage?” Lance interrupts with a roll of his eyes.

“Lance, I know this isn’t favorable,” Coran says. Tyler shuffles out of the room as inconspicuously as possible, but Allura throws him a wink on the way out. “But he has concerns! Qualms! About how this will affect the image of the band.”

Lance growls in frustration.

“It’s, like, what year is it? It should be fine! The only people bothered are the executives.”

“And every paparazzi that thinks they have access to you on the carpet,” Hunk reminds. The wound is still fresh, is what he’s saying.

 Lance huffs and returns to petting Hunk’s hair. Three days ago, he’d briefly been thrown through a panic thinking Hunk might not be okay with it, but Hunk had reminded him that he’s his best friend, he doesn’t give a single shit. Maybe Hunk can just be his bodyguard the entire time.

“Buddy, the Grammy’s is your first time really in public after the leak. We should talk about it,” Hunk says.

“I get it, I get it,” Lance mumbles. “It’s whatever. We can talk about it.”

It’s not like there aren’t people who support him. It’s not like Pidge hasn’t read him five different tweets that said, verbatim, “you coming out is so important to me!!”. But it’s also like the tabloids want to swallow his carefully crafted lady killer persona and regurgitate it into fodder that makes the parents of their target market freak out. That’s what Sendak says, anyway.

Tyler comes back in and awkwardly announces that he needs to measure Hunk before they go, and then they’re off to the a soundcheck and rehearsal. Hours later, they crowd in Sendak’s office at Galra Records headquarters. Lance’s hands itch to touch the frets and the steel strings of his guitar the entire time, anything to quell the anxiety building in his chest. Nothing quells it. He came out three days ago. He wonders when it _will_ be quelled, or when he’ll feel like normal Lancey Lance again. Not lady killer Lance, not “Has Lance been gay this whole time?” Lance, but Lance who has fantasies about falling in love. That Lance. Normal, human being Lance.

 

 

“This is bullshit,” Lance says as their sleek black car pulls up the curb outside of the Staples Center. Cameras and faces press up to the window instantly, swarming to catch a glimpse of this year’s _Best New Artist_ nominees. Allura places a comforting hand on his back, elegant fingers smoothing over cotton and polyester.

“I know, Lance,” she says. “But it’s more than this. Remember, we’re here because we’re nominated for a song you wrote, and all of us are here to support you.”

“Technically, it’s the whole band. Best new artist! That’s all of us,” Lance reminds her.

“Give me a smile, Lance,” Coran says, twisting around in the front seat of the car to face them. Lance pouts instead. “Well, it was worth a shot! Let’s get out there and pose.”

They pile out of the car. First Allura, then Hunk and Pidge, and lastly, Lance. The clamor of the cameras and microphones becomes deafening when Lance steps onto the ground. They shout, press against each other for a closer look, shove microphones in their direction. Per Sendak’s orders, Lance just grins his signature dazzling grin and follows the rest of the band onto the carpet, Coran close behind.

They’ve never done this before. Not the Grammy’s. Last year, at the Teen’s Choice Awards, Pidge still had long hair and Hunk thought a neon orange bandana went with a pastel yellow blazer. Dark times. This year, they’re at the Grammy’s.

Allura leads the pack onto the carpet, even more stunning with her silver tresses falling in waves over her shoulders. Pidge is behind her, crisp in a tight-fitted suit with the glittery purple blazer, per her request. Hunk’s the most toned down in his usual black suit, but he convinced the tailor to give him a scrap of glittery purple fabric to tie around his head.

Hunk turns around, sensing Lance’s tense presence, and tugs him to the middle of the group, between Pidge and Allura. Their usual formation. There, between the glittery blazer and evening gown and in a deep purple suit of his own, is where Lance faces the crowd.

The red carpet is weird, mostly because it feels like there should be a glass wall between the stars on the carpet and the horde of cameras behind the metal fence. A part of Lance revels in the drama, the action, the recognition of someone calling his name and begging for his attention. Another part squirms under the distinct impression that Voltron is an exotic fish in a too small aquarium, and someone wants to scoop them out in a net and dissect them. Best New Artist will do that. They want to see what you did to get there, and how you might fail.

Coran hurries them along, stopping every ten paces or so for a new group of photographers to call out their turn. Vaguely, Lance registers the other musicians around them. Nyma, farther down, and Lotor just in front of them. Best Pop Act, he thinks Lotor’s nominated for.

They’re not important, though, when the fish tank wall demands their attention. The crowd’s voices muddle together until it’s difficult to pick one calling for Lance from the other.

“Allura, look here!” a disembodied voice cries, and Allura dutifully poses to the left, the rest of them following her lead.

“Hunk, Pidge!” another yells, and they turn that way.

Mostly, they call for Lance.

“Lance! Lance McClain!” a third says, and Lance’s heart thumps painfully against his chest. This one is loud and clear. He faces the center of the aquarium wall and braces himself. “Congrats on coming out!”

A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding _wooshe_ s out, and Hunk’s grip on his forearm relaxes just a centimeter. Lance flashes a smile and waves in the general direction, and Coran moves them along.

“See?” Allura murmurs into his ear. Pidge pats him, too, and throws him the sweet Pidge smile that only comes out to play during the full moon.

“Look at you being sociable,” Lance says. “Can’t believe you’re gracing me with anything other than a frown or a sarcastic smirk.”

“You idiot, I’m just proud of you,” Pidge says.

As a pap shouts, “Keith Kogane, look at me!” another bellows, “Lance McClain, over here!” Lance looks vaguely in that direction, fighting the instinct to squint against the lights. “Tell me, what do you prefer in bed?”

On the surface, the question sounds innocuous, but Lance finds the face in the crowd and a malicious smile curls over their lips. He inhales, opens his mouth, and says –

Well, he would have said something if Pidge hadn’t steered him further down the carpet. He vaguely hears Hunk say something, but it’s as if a dam broke loose. Paps stumble over each other to yell their questions. Sendak’s words echo in the back of Lance’s mind and Hunk’s grip is iron on his forearm. A body passes before him, a figure of black and red. The end of the carpet and the entrance is only steps away, but something sick churns through Lance’s body.

He stops, whips around, and faces the aquarium wall. Exotic fish have teeth, right? Lance knows how to bite.

“Do I go around asking you what you prefer in bed?” he spits, and the camera flashes multiply tenfold. “Ooh, that might be a sensitive question. Dunno if there’s anyone in your bed, seeing as you’re out here asking me questions about something that’s none of your business.”

The pap gapes. Coran sputters and laughs behind him, throwing his hands up for damage control. Lance feels Hunk’s nails through the suit fabric, twisting his arm and moving him along, and the red carpet ends.

 

The performance goes fine. Lance should be exhilarated; he _is_ exhilarated, sharing the stage with his best friends and performing for the likes of freaking Beyoncé at the Staples Center. And when the recipient of the Best New Artist is announced, Lance is so exhilarated he thinks he might throw up on stage.

Luckily, he keeps it down. He barely stumbles over their thank you’s at the microphone, and he doesn’t mention his sexuality, per Sendak’s request, even though it fights to jump off the tip of his tongue.

Overall, it’s a good Grammy’s experience. Actually, it fucking rocks, and Lance can’t deny it.  

Now, three out of four Voltron members stumble out of a black car onto another, shorter carpet into the Galra Records Official After Party. Lance turns back and blows baby Pidge a kiss through the open door.

“Sleep tight! Don’t let the haters bite!” he says. Pidge sticks out her tongue and slams the car door shut.

Lance cackles and lands in Hunk’s embrace.

“Man, I don’t know why she doesn’t want to stay,” he says, trying his best to ignore the commotion around them as they enter the party. “She won a Grammy, and she has the energy of a seven-year-old who found the Red Bull behind the veggies.”

“Maybe she has more important things to do than hang with us all night,” Hunk says. Lance and Allura burst into giggles.

“Nah,” Lance says. “She doesn’t.”

The Galra Records After Party is always pretty glorious. It’s one of those you see photos of on _People_ the next morning. Perfect pictures of perfectly done up people dancing and chatting in designer clothes. The sea of them practically parts as Allura sweeps through the cavernous marble hall entrance. The rest of them follow, all exchanging hellos with Galra execs and featured artists in turn.

“Good job, kids,” a prim old woman in a silvery dress says as they pass. She has this smile, like she’s expecting something of them now. She probably is. Lance doesn’t want to think about that.

Eventually, Allura leads them into the center of the dance floor.

“Dance with me, Lance?” she asks, holding out a delicate hand.

“Already? We barely got here!”

“You’re wound up like a child’s toy,” she says. “Before you do anything else, you need to dance.”

Lance’s friends know him too well. Fifteen minutes later, the bungee cords restricting his chest have loosened a few inches, and Lance feels his laughs deep in his stomach as Hunk shimmies with a slightly familiar blonde girl and Allura pulls Lance into a dip.

As Lance comes up from the dip, someone calls, “Allura! It’s so good to see you again!”

Lance comes face-to-face with another on the record label: Lotor, the hotshot pop artist with two hits in the Top 40 at any given time. They didn’t have time to say at Staples, but Lance only feels half-guilty for it.

“Oh, hello,” Allura says, letting herself be pulled into a two-armed hug.

“Lance, Hunk,” he says as he tucks a lock of greasy, badly bleached hair behind his ear. “Congratulations. I know I didn’t win my category, but Voltron saved the day for Galra Records.” He faces Allura. “Come, we should catch up! I have to show you the terrace in this house!”

Allura shrugs, nods at her bandmates, and lets herself be dragged off.

“I don’t know how anybody thinks he’s charming,” Hunk says. “You smelled his cologne from here, right?”

“Oh, totally. He reeks of Walmart without ever having to enter one.”

Hunk throws his head back and laughs. The glitter on his headband sparkles in the dim chandelier light.

“I gotta go find Shay somewhere. She said she’d be catering this one. You okay to just mingle around and we’ll catch up in thirty?”

“Yeah, definitely. Go find your girl,” Lance says. Hunk smiles shyly and heads into the crowd, leaving Lance to weave through on his own.

He doesn’t have a destination in mind, barely knows where he’s heading as strangers and familiar faces yell his name and wave in congratulations. He grins, winks, and waves back at every one of them. On any other night, he’d sidle up to Nyma and wrap on arm over her shoulder to join her conversation. Tonight, he finds himself deposited at the long sleek bar and slumping into one of the two last seats available.  

“Gimme a shot of something,” he orders the bartender. The girl’s gaze lingers on him for just a moment too long before she hurries to pour it for him. He downs it the second she puts it down, relishes in the burn that tugs at the cords. It does the job just as well as dancing.

Another warm body slides into the seat beside him. Lance plans to ignore them in favor of the second shot, but when a raspy voice rumbles, “Just a beer, thanks,” his eyes snap to the figure.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Keith Kogane?”

Keith, _the_ Keith Kogane, blinks at him.

“Yes? And you’re… Lance McClain. From Voltron.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I am. We won a fucking Grammy today.”

“That’s cool,” Keith says. He pauses to sip from his glass, and Lance takes the moment to soak him in.

Now that he can look, really look, without fear of a stranger reading into it, he can admit that Keith Kogane is hot. He’s only ever told that to Hunk at two a.m. after a one-pound bag of Skittles and a five-hour romantic comedy marathon. In this dim light, surrounded by a cacophony of stars and their entourage, Lance can truly appreciate the messy locks of his pitch-black hair, the marble of his skin that rivals the room, and the line of his neck and jaw as he sips.

“I’ve watched your movies,” he blurts out, and immediately cringes. “I mean, my sister loves them. So do me and Hunk and Allura. You’re, like, an incredible actor.”

“I am?” Keith raises a thick, perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Thanks.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? This is the music industry, not film.”

“Someone I know has a song in a film I’m in. I figured I’d tag along with him.”

Lance remembers as the alcohol begins to fray his system why exactly he’s spent so much time thinking about Keith Kogane at two a.m. with Skittles.

“You’re gay, right?” Ah, shit, another stupid phrase to make him cringe.

“Yup. And you’re bisexual. I saw it online,” Keith says.

Lance’s face heats up and he looks away, back to the bartender who stands suspiciously close to them, cleaning out the same glass for the second time.

“Yeah, oops,” he mutters.

“Oops?”

“Oops,” Lance repeats. He doesn’t know why he’s talking. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You come out as openly bisexual, face the stigma and backlash, and you say oops?” Keith’s brows furrow in a way that really shouldn’t be adorable. Lance swallows thickly.

“Duh,” he says. “But I guess it’s done. I’m not ashamed or whatever.”

“You shouldn’t be. Shit’s tough, but you’re doing it anyway. You should be proud of yourself. For coming out and the Grammy.”

Lance’s jaw drops.

“Thank you? I mean, thanks. Wow. That means something, coming from you.”

“Nah, don’t thank me,” he shrugs, swirling the beer in the glass. Then, he tilts his head, a glint of something indecipherable in his eyes. “Actually, I’m a little offended.”

“Wha—offended? Why?”

“You just come out, you’re allowed to flirt with guys, and when I sit next to you at the bar, your first reaction is to tell me your sister loves my movies.”

Lance stutters, his brain short-circuiting, but Keith cuts him off with a low chuckle.

“Don’t freak out,” he says. “I’m just curious. I thought I heard that you were the lady killer of the band.”

Right. _Right._ The ‘lady killer’ of Voltron. Lance tries to conjure one of the countless lines that have worked on girls in the past. When he looks up and sees the masculine curve of Keith’s cheekbones, the soft hair curling over his ears, he comes up short.

“I, uh, I dunno how to flirt with guys,” Lance says. He can feel his jaw go slack again as Keith just gives him this smile, wide enough to show his canines. It looks beautiful on him. The thought _why do they make him play moody all the time when he could look like this_ flashes through his mind.

“Really? I’m surprised. All the rumors I’ve heard is that you flirt with anything that has two legs and the possibility of something between them.”

Lance scoffs and accepts the shot the bartender’s slid in front of him. He musters up his best wink and leans forward.

“That’s what you get when you keep half of yourself locked away your whole life. Hey, maybe you can teach me, Mr. Romance,” he says. “I got all my best moves from your movies anyway.”

Keith rolls his eyes so hard Lance worries they might drop out onto the bar top.

“Don’t. They never work in real life. _Real_ flirting, with real guys, is a bit different.”

“Oh, yeah? Show me, hotshot.”

It’s a challenge. Lance hesitates, seeking out the answer in Keith’s deep fucking eyes. Jesus, is Lance drunk or are they really purple this close up? Just when the silence begins to feel awkward, Keith smirks and rises up to meet it.

“I do know a thing or two,” he says. A sultry smile replaces the smirk, and Keith leans forward and grazes Lance’s forearm with his fingers. “About you, I mean. A thing or two more than what the tabloids have shown over the last week. Congrats, by the way.”

“You’re a little late on that,” Lance says. His words air slightly on the side of breathless as Keith’s fingers trail up to his bicep.

“I’ve seen your band in concert.”

“You? At a concert? I can’t see it.”

“Insult me again and I’ll stop,” Keith warns, but the ghost of his touch is relentless. “My costar dragged me to see you guys. See, she had a thing for the girl with the silver hair—”

“Allura,” Lance interrupts. “Who doesn’t?”

“But she never warned me that I’d see _you_ onstage. You know, with your guitar and your tank top. It was winter, but when has weather ever stopped Lance McClain’s look?”

This can’t be classified as flirting, not when Keith’s fingers glide up his neck and settle on the line of his jaw, the pad of Keith’s thumb only centimeters away from his lips. Lance’s breath hitches.

“The way you act with that microphone,” Keith drawls, looking up at Lance through his long eyelashes. “I’m surprised nobody figured it out before now.”

His touch lingers. Keith maintains eye contact, raising an eyebrow when Lance doesn’t answer, only flickers his attention to Keith’s lips and tears it away again in half a thumping heartbeat.

“Oh, wow,” he hums. “I really made Lance McClain speechless. I should be awarded for this.”

To their left, the flash of a lightbulb shatters the moment. Lance jumps a foot above his seat and Keith’s hand falls away, both of their eyes snapping to a camera on the other side of the crowd. Fuck.

“Wh-what—” Lance’s brow furrows. The flash registers in his brain; oh, no. Sendak. “Shit. That’s gonna be out in ten minutes. Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

He cuts himself off, sliding off the bar stool and furiously rubbing his cheeks to will the blush away.

“What’s wrong? It was just one photo,” Keith says. He makes to stand up, but Lance holds his hand up and Keith obeys.

“It’s, um, complicated. Sorry, Keith, but I should find the rest of them. We have to, er, plan something. Something good. It requires extensive work.”

“At a Grammy’s After Party?” Keith asks incredulously. “After you won a fucking Grammy? Lance, if I made you uncomfortable, just tell me.”

“You didn’t! You didn’t. Um, I just need to…”

“Was I good teacher, though? It’s the touching that does the trick. When I saw you on the red carpet earlier, you were touching at least one of your bandmates the whole time.”

Lance pauses when he should be making a getaway, cocks his head at Keith like his ears aren’t bright red.

“It was. Um, good. Do you always observe things like that on the red carpet?” he asks.

“Sometimes, yeah, when I’m bored,” Keith shrugs. “It comes in handy for things like this. Even when I’ve never heard of you outside of the past week and I’ve never actually been to one of your concerts, I can still exploit the observed weakness to my advantage.”

Oh. Something in Lance deflates. Of course Keith Kogane’s never been to a Voltron concert. The guy hasn’t posted to Instagram in two years, much less listened to music beyond Mozart’s early works.

“You act like flirting is a battle,” he says, clearing his throat to tamp down the disappointment.

“It is,” Keith says. “And I won.”

He slides off the bar stool and pats Lance on the shoulder as he strides past, disappearing into the writhing mass of bodies. Maybe if Lance looks, he can find a face of someone familiar, but he only watches the head of unkempt black hair lose itself amongst everyone else.

Lance can’t help but stumble back to the bar and order a new drink. Keith wasn’t flirting with him. He just took pity. _Woe is me, this baby bisexual just came out of the closet and doesn’t have experience! I must teach him, because I, the king of Nicholas Sparks book-to-film adaptations, know so much better._ _Lance might be known for promiscuity, but I, Keith Kogane, can save the day with an observable exploitation!_

Lance clutches his glass and groans, letting his head fall to the bar top. He’ll deal with Sendak tomorrow. Right now, he needs to be so drunk Charon himself will have to haul his hangover body down the River Styx.

 

“Lance,” an indistinct voice says from somewhere far away, somewhere decidedly not here, deep in comfort, toes buried in the sand and water lapping at his ankles… The voice tugs sharply at his shoulder. “ _Lance_ , wake up! You’re not going to believe your daily social media report.”

“Wha…?” Lance mutters, already slipping away from the sand and sea. He rolls over to snuggle into the sheets only to bump into a pair of bony knees. Lance cracks an eye open. Pidge.

“There you are, you lazy ass. Here’s some water and Tylenol. Quick, because I have a bomb-shell to drop on you and I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

Lance groans and pulls himself into a sitting position, accepting the pills and glass Hunk held out. He vaguely wonders why both Pidge and Hunk are in his room this early. Oh, and Allura, who perches on the end of his bed in pajamas.

As he gulps down the water, the memories of last night seep back into his brain. The red carpet, the award, the After Party. Dancing with Allura. Drinking shots with Joe Jonas. Leering at Hunk and Shay when they huddled in the corner.

The red carpet; spitting insults at the paparazzi. The award; biting down the words he really wanted to say. The After Party; Keith Kogane.

He sputters at that thought and the last of the water cascades onto his bare chest. Shit, Keith. The photo.

He groans again and doubles over. Someone takes the glass away and Lance digs the heels of his hand into his eyes, willing the image to go away. Now he knows why they’re all here. If it wasn’t the band, Coran would wake him up. Or Sendak.

“I take that as you remembering what happened?” Allura says, worry evident in her big eyes. Lance nods meekly. “Why did you not tell us?”

“It didn’t seem important,” Lance says. A lie. “Is it bad?”

Hunk gently maneuvers him upright.

“It’s not that bad. Sendak hasn’t called Coran yet, so it’s not that bad,” he says.

“Do you wanna see?” Pidge asks.

Lance shrugs. He doesn’t have any choice.

Pidge picks up the laptop she had placed at her side and sets it on Lance’s lap.

**_VOLTRON’S LANCE MCCLAIN LETS LOOSE!_ **

_After coming out as bisexual with a few sneaky pap shots last week, Voltron front man Lance McClain had quite a night at the Grammy’s, where the band won their first Grammy for Best New Artist. The band appeared on the red carpet flaunting gorgeous matching purple attire. While they were all smiles at first, McClain began to throw insults at the paparazzi when they mentioned the elephant in the room: his sexuality._

Lance squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and opens them again, skimming further down the page. Halfway down the article, the image he’s looking for appears. Even though the cameraman was halfway across the room, he managed to nab the perfect shot: Keith Kogane and Lance McClain with their whole bodies turned towards each other, Keith holding his gaze with his eyes and his jaw with his hand. Lance’s own hand touches the same spot automatically, like he can still feel it.

 _At the Galra Records After Party, photographers got a shot of McClain cozying up to film star Keith Kogane. Kogane was in the news half a year ago for coming out as gay, announcing he would play the lead in the gay love story_ Love on Daibazaal _, set to be released in late March. Now, he’s in the news again with McClain. We here at_ People _are just waiting for all the juicy details surrounding this blossoming relationship._

“Blossoming relationship, huh?” Pidge asks.

“Would you like to elaborate?” Allura prods.

“There’s nothing to elaborate on,” Lance says, thrusting the laptop back to Pidge. “He sat down next to me at the bar. I told him Veronica likes his movies and he – I dunno, it ended up like that. But I left right after the photographer took the shot. I didn’t even know the guy was there! Or else I wouldn’t have – I wouldn’t—”

“Hey, it’s okay, buddy,” Hunk says, a comforting hand rubbing circles on Lance’s back.

“It’s not. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that thing to the paps, and I shouldn’t have let Keith… I don’t know. Do that.”

“There’s good news, too,” Pidge says, turning the laptop back around. “Well, good depending on how you look at it. Dude, your Twitter _exploded_ overnight with that photo.”

@lanceylance – oh my god??!?! Did u guys see that pic of lance and keith Kogane??? They looked so cute together!!!!

@alicelovespidge – I’m FANNING MYSELF i can’t BELIEVE my favorite actor and favorite singer in ONE SHOT. FLIRTING??? On the same night Voltron won a grammy???? blessed

@hunksorangeheadband – LANCE MCCLAIN IS OUT THERE, BEING BISEXUAL, SHOUTING AT PAPS. MY CROPS ARE WATERED, CHILDREN FED. MY SKIN IS CLEAR, JUST AS LANCE PROPHESIED. LIFE IS GOOD

@alicelovespidge – @hunksorangeheadband THAT PAP WAS SO RUDE???? WHO THE HELL SAYS THAT? IT’S 2015. LANCE HAS A GRAMMY

“There’s more,” Pidge says. “Like, tons more. Like, the most interactions with our social media accounts that’s happened in weeks.”

“Is it. Is it all like that?” Lance asks, a little breathless.

“No,” Hunk says. “Um, there’s some where it’s… kind of bad. Kind of exactly what Sendak described would happen. But there’s this! Like Pidge said, there’s a lot of this!”

Lance manages a meager smile. He sniffs, wipes away the water still on his chest.

“Thanks, guys. Group hug?”

“Only for a second. You fucking reek, McClain.”

“Aww, Pidge! I love you, too,” Lance coos, wrapping her in his arms. She squeals, but relents when all four of them tumble into each other in one big signature Voltron Hug. That’s what the fans call it, the Voltron Hug. They do it on stage, with the fans, in interviews. This one is blissfully private.

A shrill ringtone interrupts the peaceful moment, and Lance ducks away enough to see _Coran, Coran, the Gorgeous Man-ager_ lighting up his phone. Hunk smiles and nods, and Lance picks up the call.

“Lance, you’re awake!” Coran cries. There’s noise in the background, like he’s already stuck in Los Angeles traffic. “Good morning! Listen, Pidge has probably already filled you in on the predicament, yes?”

“Um, yeah,” Lance replies.

“Good, good Pidge! Tell Pidge thank you from Coran. Uh, slight change in plans for today, then. I know we said we would give you the morning off, but, er. There’s no easy way to say this. Sendak wants an emergency meeting at Galra Records Headquarters. About the predicament.”

Lance’s carefully constructed neutral expression crumbles. Of course.

“The whole band?” he asks.

“No, Lance. Just you.”

A pause, where Coran knows he’s processing the information.

“I’m coming to pick you up now,” Coran continues. “The driver and I are around five minutes away. Be dressed, and, please, not in sweatpants or swim trunks this time.”

“Shit. I mean, okay! I’m, like, already dressed. I’m still in my suit. I’m never _un_ dressed.”

“Alright, my boy. See you in a tick.”

The line goes dead, and Lance drops the phone and wriggles out from under the covers.

“Emergency meeting with Sendak in five minutes. Coran thanks you, Pidge. I’m gonna go die, now.”

“You won’t die,” Allura says. “At worst, it’ll be a coma until the album comes out.”

“That’s super reassuring. I love you, too, Allura. Please, get out of my room.”

Hunk and Pidge throw him grins and disappear, but Allura hesitates at the door.

“Will you be alright? I can come with you,” she says. “This is a difficult topic. It’s your… sexuality, after all.”

“Don’t worry, Allura. I’m sure it’s just gonna be Sendak yelling at me for five minutes and then assigning me pre-written tweets to promote the new single. I’ve never entered Galra HQ and _not_ lived to tell the tale.”

Her mouth pinches into a frown, but she nods and leaves to join the others on the couch. God, Lance desperately wishes Allura could tag along. Her quick tongue deals with Sendak better than the rest of them.

Instead, he smacks his face against the closet door and pick out the least stained jeans and shirt off the floor. Just to spite Sendak.

The car arrives, and Lance stumbles outside with a hug from each of his bandmates. He crashes into the back seat next to Coran, who’s already tapping away on his phone like no other.

“Morning!” Coran says. “Er, well, it’s almost noon now, isn’t it? Ah, well. I’ve already spoken with Sendak this morning, plus a couple of papers and others on the Voltron team.” He takes a breath, glancing up from his phone to see Lance curled up in the seat. “Are you feeling alright?”

Lance inhales, deep and shuddering, and offers Coran a signature Lance smile.

“I’m all good, Coran. Don’t worry. The band hooked me up with some Tylenol.”

Coran nods a bit thoughtfully.

“I trust you, Lance. I feel I should warn you, though. I can’t tell you yet what Sendak is going to say, but I do hope that the Tylenol helped.”

The cords tighten around Lance’s chest.

“Yup. Like I said, all good. Take me to my fate, Coran.”

 

Galra Records, in Lance’s never humble opinion, is way too fucking enormous. By the time Lance and Coran enter the foyer, they’re almost five minutes late to the meeting. The secretary glances up in boredom and directs them down to the elevators, up to the fifth floor. The hallways are long, large, and lined with posters, records, and signatures of Galra prodigies. Lance knows that at the other end of this hallway is a massive floor-to-ceiling poster of Voltron, taken from the photoshoot for their first album. Lance’s egregiously loopy signature goes right across Poster Lance’s chest. He quirks a smile at the memory.

It disappears when they reach the end of the hallway. They come upon the heavy double doors to the assigned board room, a silver disruption in the rich purple walls. Coran throws Lance one last look before heaving the doors open, revealing the long mahogany meeting table and cluster of black chairs. At the head of the table is Sendak in all his glory, hands folded on the table and sharp eyes already locked onto Lance.

“Good morning! Or good noon. Good afternoon? Hello, Sendak,” Coran says, steering Lance to a seat on the right side of the table. Lance is so immersed in the thumping of his own heart, the sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, that he doesn’t register the other occupants of the room until he’s forced into the chair and facing them.

“What the fuck,” Lance blurts. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Keith says.

Keith Kogane. Right there. Looking just as good, if not better, in a loose hoodie and unbrushed hair. _Fuck me_ , Lance thinks frantically. _I should have left with Pidge_.

“Boys,” Sendak says, his voice cool and deep. It draws their attention away from each other to the rest of the room. “I’m pleasantly surprised we could all make it so early. I know how you must be feeling, Lance.”

Lance bristles, but Coran places a hand on his shoulder.

“Lance, Coran, this is Keith Kogane and his agent, Kolivan. Keith, Kolivan, this is Lance McClain and his manager, Coran.”

“The one and only,” Coran says with a wink. Kolivan doesn’t react. Jeez, talk about stone-facing.

“Although Keith and Lance have already met,” Sendak says slyly. He gestures to the right side of him. “This is my assistant, Axca, and a Galra Records lawyer, Narti. Thank you for joining us today, Narti.”

Narti doesn’t say anything either, only nods. The hairs on the back of Lance’s neck stand on end. He knows Galra Records lawyers. This isn’t someone he knows.

“I assume you’ve both seen social media over the last twenty-four hours,” Sendak says. “The photo. The articles. The social media interactions.”

Axca slides a photo across the smooth wood, and Lance doesn’t have to look to know what he will see. What he will feel, the phantom touch of Keith’s fingers on his arm and jaw. He makes the grave mistake of locking eyes with Keith, only to find him emotionless.

“Not only the photo, but your behavior on the red carpet, Lance,” he continues, turning all his attention like a spotlight on Lance. “You know we talked about this beforehand. What were my instructions?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” Lance mutters.

“I think it was the pap that caused a scene,” Keith says. Lance’s eyes widen. “He was the one asking an invasive question.”

“Thank you for the input, Keith, but that’s between Lance and his superiors,” Sendak says. Keith frowns, but he doesn’t push against it. “No matter. Lance already broke the rules, so this meeting is about finding a way to fix it. Might I add, in a way that is beneficial for both parties.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Kolivan says, speaking for the first time the whole meeting.

“Axca,” Sendak says with a nod. Axca opens a manila folder in front of her and spreads out a collection of papers, close enough that Coran and Kolivan can pick them up. Lance catches a glimpse of the article Coran picks – _Voltron’s Lance McClain Lets Loose!_

“You sure know how to gain a little attention, Lance. More so than your little outburst, the picture of you and Keith Kogane is making incredible rounds on the internet. Not only is it in articles and on talk shows, but the social media reaction practically exploded. Here’s a graph on the rate of Twitter interactions between followers and non-followers on Lance’s Twitter.”

Axca hands out another paper. Lance may not know any math beyond simple addition, but he can understand a jump in a bar graph when he sees one.

“Well,” Coran breathes.

“I trust the same is happening for Keith’s Twitter, Kolivan?” Sendak asks. Kolivan shifts a little uncomfortably but relents with a nod. Sendak’s lips curls into a sickly smile. “I wouldn’t have been able to foresee this kind of attention before Lance said he wanted to come out. Now, you know I wasn’t too fond of the idea, but the amount of free promotion we’ve gotten for the new Voltron album is practically priceless. Wouldn’t you say, Coran?”

Lance’s mind whirled. Just yesterday, Sendak was telling him that all the press was _bad_ , bad for the fans and for their parents. Lance, the guy in the alley with another guy, when he already flirts with every girl on stage.

“Er, yes, I suppose so,” Coran says. “But weren’t you saying…”

“Yes, I was. But this photo changes things.” Sendak drops the leisurely pace of the conversation, placing his palms flat on the table and morphing the smile into a flat frown. “There’s a way to solve all our problems. The new Voltron album needs more promotion if it wants to make the same success as the last one. _Love on Daibazaal_ is also desperately in need of promotion.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I’ve seen the numbers, Kolivan. You remember that we work for the same overarching company. It’s a breakthrough film, will reach new crowds and new audiences, but Keith is still an up-and-coming actor in terms of international stardom.”

Sendak pauses and glances between Keith and Lance. He nods at Axca, who pulls out one more paper.

“This is our solution. A fake romance between Keith Kogane, upcoming lead in _Love on Daibazaal_ , and Lance McClain, leading man of Voltron.”

The silence that overtakes the room is deafening. Keith freezes and Lance’s jaw drops when Axca lays the paper down in front of them. Across the top is a mock headline: _All You Need to Know About Hollywood’s New Darling Couple: Lance McClain and Keith Kogane._

Lance is the first one to speak.

“That’s funny, Sendak. I didn’t know you had a sense of humor, but this is real hilarious,” he says, forcing a fake laugh.

“It’s not a joke, Lance,” Sendak says. “It’s a lucrative business decision. You two would be perfect as the exciting new romance on the scene. Nothing could be more cliché; it’s perfect for a groundbreaking movie like _Love on Daibazaal_ , and Voltron fans are already eating it up.”

“One quick question, Sendak. What about—”

Sendak waves Coran off.

“If Lance McClain is in a sturdy, committed romantic relationship, it staves off the rumors and keeps the target market. There are – and excuse my liberal use of the term – literally no downsides to this. Agreed, Kolivan?”

Kolivan rolls the idea around in his mind for only a moment longer before nodding.

“Good, good. You’re on the same page, then. And Coran?”

“Coran, no way,” Lance pleads. “This is weird! I’ve never met Keith before last night! You can’t think lying to the fans about this is a good idea!”

Coran tugs at his collar and looks sheepishly away.

“We’ve already discussed this, Lance,” he says, and Lance curses the day Coran was born. “Don’t worry! There’s not many requirements and it’s minimal effort. Well, sort of. Sendak will lay it out.”

“I can’t believe it,” Lance hisses. “Betrayed by my own manager.”

Keith, at least, looks on sympathetically.

“It would last for three months, right up until and a little after the release of the album and the movie. Requisites include public dates, event appearances, social media interaction, and paparazzi walks.”

“Social media interaction?” Lance cries.

“ _Dates?_ ” Keith asks.

“Anything that would keep up exactly what happened last night,” Sendak says. “Although, maybe a little more family friendly.”

Lance can literally (excuse his liberal use of the term) feel Keith’s eyes boring into him. The whole interaction plays back unbidden in Lance’s mind. If only he’d fucking left with Pidge.

“Are we settled?” Sendak asks.

“Yes,” Kolivan says.

“Kolivan,” Keith starts, but Kolivan is already reaching for the contract that Narti holds out. Narti gives another one to Coran, and the Keith and Lance stare on in disbelief as their managers begin filling them out.

“We’ll settle the terms and a story a little more clearly in a moment. Right now, a bit of advice for Hollywood’s new couple,” Sendak says. He’s got that smile again, that insidious grin. “For this to work, you need to get a little comfortable with each other. Being friends isn’t a prerequisite, but it would be realistic.”

“I doubt Mr. Romance will have a problem with that,” Lance can’t help but huff under his breath. Keith narrows his eyes. God, being angry at Keith would be a lot easier if he didn’t look like that in that hoodie.

 _That might be a problem_ , a niggling thought whispers. Lance pushes it far out of his mind; present Lance isn’t equipped to deal with it. Present Lance needs to scramble with the realization that he’s now a taken man, bound by contract and all.   

Present Keith stares blank-faced at the contract placed before him. He takes the pen, hesitates, and signs it. Signature, initial, date. They’re a couple.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Present Max is unbelievably excited for the next chapter.
> 
> Here's my [Tumblr](http://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com), and kudos and comments are appreciated and motivating ;).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is awkward. This is awkward, right? It’s awkward,” Lance says, wringing his hands.  
> “It’s a little awkward,” Hunk says from his position hunched over Lance’s laptop. A large-lettered headline covers half the page, followed by a pap picture from Keith’s terrace date.  
>  _Lance McClain and Keith Kogane All Cuddled Up—OMG!_  
>  “Tiger Beat always knows how to make it awkward,” Pidge says as she patters her drumsticks against her knees. “What does it say?”  
> “Something about snuggling on the terrace,” Hunk says. “Wow, they’re really interested. Is this… fake relationship thing actually working?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken SO long. From now on, updates will be more consistent. I want to finish this fic, and it's GOING to be finished. Mark my words. If I don't finish, I give you guys permission to find my physical location and give me an in-person talking to. I don't know what happened after I posted the first chapter... a lot of apprehension, anxiety, and feeling unsure about the direction of the fic. But I've written about... 84k of this so far, so it's getting there. For now, Chapter Two of Love Song in C Minor is here! This baby is 11.9k words.
> 
> Shout out to [Squelette](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/) for reading the first chapter and unwittingly giving me the last bit of encouragement I needed to get out of my December self-esteem ditch and edit this chapter. Also thank you to [Colleen](https://csmithman.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing, and to the HappyChat and Pinefest chats for being the places where I can talk fic. 
> 
> It's the start of a new year! I'm going to finish this fic! I'm going to update more regularly... and not six months between chapters! So, without further ado...

So, the whole fake boyfriend thing kind of throws a wrench in all of Lance’s plans. The daydreaming ones he can forgive (no one else knows about those, anyway), but everything else? Now that Lance is bound by contract into a publicly romantic relationship, he doubts his working life will stay the same.

It’ll start off a little slow, Sendak explained. Entice the target markets into wondering if there’s something more than one picture at an after party. A little flirting here, a public outing there, and _bam!_ As soon as the first single off _The Return_ is released, Lance McClain and Keith Kogane’s budding relationship is confirmed. Search results will skyrocket, and so will interest in “The Hunted”—the first single off the album—and _Love on Daibazaal_.

“It’ll have all the young fans in a tizzy and all the older ones in a pickle! No, wait, that can’t be right…” Coran trails off, tugging thoughtfully at his mustache. Lance pouts and burrows himself deeper into the back seat of the van cruising at a steady ten miles-per-hour in the Los Angeles rush hour traffic.

“And this is… popular?” Hunk asks, speaking for Lance. He leans over the middle row of seats to get to Coran.

“All of Hollywood dabbles in a bit of fake romance now and then!” Coran says. “Why, back in my day—”

“Alright, Coran,” Allura interrupts. “Let’s leave your Hollywood stories for another day. This is a little more important.”

“Yeah. Our Lance McClain is in another serious relationship, and he didn’t even have to use any terrible flirting techniques to make it happen,” Pidge says. She pauses and levels Lance with a pre-disappointed look. “You didn’t, did you?”

“Funny story,” he mumbles. “Ah, no.”

Hunk frowns and places a hand on his shoulder. Lance can guess what he’s thinking: the paps must have really ticked him off if he didn’t even try flirting with Keith.

Again, it’s not exactly the truth, but it’s a good cover up. That’s beginning to be a common theme in Lance’s life lately.

Lance stares out the extra-tinted windows instead of facing the occupants of the car. Nerves jump in his chest, and his fingers restlessly trace an endless pattern on the fabric of his jeans. Images flit through his mind without real sense. Keith, dimly lit at the after party; Pidge's face after Lance dropped a fake boyfriend sized bomb; the article he'd read this morning, five days after he came out.

That's dread, Lance thinks. He's feeling dread.

“Don’t fret, Lance,” Coran says. He twists around in his seat and Lance momentarily wonders if gymnastics were any part of Coran’s early Hollywood days. “It’s only social media for the next few days. In fact, why don’t you check Twitter right now and see what the commotion is?”

He ends the question with a wink. When Coran winks, it’s never a good sign.

“The dude barely posts,” Lance protests, already picking up his phone. “Like, he lives under a rock. He only knew my name from coming out. Who doesn’t know my name?!”

“Lots of people, space man,” Pidge says.

Lance sticks out his tongue at the traitor. “The point _is_ that Twitter is lame. He’s never on it anyway!”

Coran just winks again.

Reluctantly, Lance opens Twitter on his phone. He’ll just follow Keith on his social medias for now and get the fuck out of there. With all the commotion surrounding the fish tank wall at the Grammy’s, he doesn’t feel like sticking around.

When he pulls up Keith’s profile, he blinks once, then twice. Keith’s already tweeted him. Like, three hours ago tweeted him.

@Keith_Kogane – @lanceymcclain – Is the ‘y’ really necessary?

The tweet already has thousands of retweets and thousands more likes. It’s unbelievable, and so much more than anything else he tweets. Before his cheeks heat up, Lance presses follow and types out a quick reply.

@lanceymcclain -- @Keith_Kogane – is the formality really necessary? first we meet in suits, and now we’re talking with correct grammar. SMH

That’s per the story that they laid out with Kolivan and Coran. Keep it as close to the truth for ease of recall, Sendak advised. They still met at the Grammy’s, and now they’re flirting back and forth. Phase Two of Fake Public Relationship commenced.

The reaction is instant. Lance’s replies climb exponentially in interactions.

@alicelovespidge — @lanceymcclain OH MY GODDDDDDDDDD. LANCE U SLY DOG.

@lovelyallura – and here we see @Keith_Kogane and @lanceymcclain in their natural habitat, flirting over twitter. Look at how lance uses an acronym. It’s just the beginning of the mating ritual.

Lance snorts at that one. If he were in a real relationship, he’d get all those butterflies from it. A flash of hot guilt swarms his chest instead. They don’t realize he’s sitting here, in a car heading to Galra HQ, ordered to tweet by Coran.

He follows Keith on Instagram, too, just for good measure. The last thing Keith posted was a badly framed picture of his puppy from two years ago, captioned “This is my space wolf. A lab husky mix, to be exact.”

Stupid dog. Lance likes the photo, but only because the dog is cute.

"Are you okay there, Lance?" Allura asks. He blinks and catches her furrowed, perfectly plucked brows, realizing his face must have twisted up.

"Are you, Allura?" he asks, kicking at the back of her seat. She just sighs and looks away. "Really, I'm peachy. Don't worry."

Coran must be on Twitter, too, because he lets out a hearty chuckle.

“Good lad, Lance,” he says. “You really know how to work the crowd.”

Lance flicks back over to Twitter and scrolls through his mentions just for a moment. Keith’s already following him on both Twitter and Instagram, he notices.

@vvoltron – soooo are we gonna talk ab how a pap caught keith Kogane and lance together, and now they’re following each other on social media?? Are we gonna talk about that??

@lanceseyebrows – if lance gets in a relationship with that boy I’ll be pissed he’s too cute not to be with me instead!!

@hunksorangeheadband — @lanceseyebrows ok but he looks happy? exCUSE lance for coming out of the closet and finally being able to flirt with ‘that boy’

@vvoltron – WAIT lance even liked keith’s photo from TWO YEARS AGO. Space wolf??? Space themed albums??? Are we gonna TALK about that?!

Hm. Yeah, Lance does see the correlation.

Keith hasn’t replied yet, so Lance pockets his phone and opts to jiggle his leg against Allura’s seat instead, listening only absently to her and Hunk’s conversation about… No, he’s not listening at all.

The car rolls into the parking lot of Galra HQ. It looks just as it did yesterday, a foreboding steel and glass structure.

Allura nudges Lance in the side as they enter the building.

“Are you excited to see what they did with our notes?” she whispers. Her eyes sparkle, and she waves around her manicured hands. “I love seeing a professional redesign of the Voltron robot! They’re infinitely better than my Photoshop skills.”

To that, Lance can manage to grin and nod back. Before he can reply, Pidge and Hunk run past – well, Hunk runs and Pidge clings to his back.

“To the robot!” she whoops.

“At ease, children!” Coran yells. Hunk immediately gently puts Pidge on the ground. “Follow me now.”

Coran leads them again to the fifth floor, down a series of hallways, and into a board room. This time, there’s a small panel of Galra goons engrossed in their various electronic devices, all wearing identical ugly gray suits. They glance up in unison at their arrival, and one checks their watch and grimaces. After all this time, it’s still boggling that a whole office building chooses to dress in the same fashion disaster of an outfit.

“What’s cookin’, good lookings?” Lance cocks a smile as he saunters into the room. Er, no one smiles back.

Allura nudges him again, and Lance takes a seat and puts on his best pout instead.

“Finally,” a goon says with a broad smile. “Shall we begin?”

“We shall,” Lance rubs his hands together. “Bring us the robot!”

One of the men flips around a piece of cardboard embossed with the album artwork and props it up on the table. Allura’s brows furrow. Pidge adjusts her glasses and squints.

“Um,” Hunk begins. “Where’s the robot? The Voltron robot?”

The Galra goon laughs and looks at the artwork himself. Coran chuckles nervously, but he wilts under Allura’s unamused glance.

“Ah, the Voltron robot,” the goon hums.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “The one on the cover of _The Rise of Voltron?_ The symbol of the band? It’s a huge mecha in primary and secondary colors. Maybe you’ve seen it.”

“Good one, Lance!” he replies, but the smile is strained. His teeth are too white. "We get it. Robots! They're super cool. But what teens want nowadays isn't robots, it's _you_. The four of you, the stars of the band itself."

"But—"

"According to our sample groups, fans got a lot more excited about your faces than the face of a robot! It's been done, anyway, on _The Rise_. Your sophomore album needs to reach new levels, and this album cover will do the trick!"

It's a photo from the tour photoshoot they did a month or two back. Their faces are painted to look like planets and stars against a black background, and it's cool. Like, Lance was super excited for the concept of that shoot. Space, man! It's on theme with the band!

"But _The Return_ is kind of a concept album," Lance protests. "The robot is, like, the symbol of it. It returns! We return!"

"What happened to the notes Lance and I sent in about the cover last month?" Allura asks, her voice a little more urgent. "I redesigned the robot to modernize it. It's quite a bit more minimalist and would look wonderful for the promotional material."

"Oh, we received that!" the goon says. "This is better. This is Voltron."

"It's literally not," Lance deadpans. A suspicious lump appears in his throat, but he swallows it down and curls his hands into fists. "It still looks good, but--"

"That's all we need to hear! It looks good. Listen, we can put the robot inside the lyrics booklet. It'll still be a part of the promotional materials, and it still sells on merchandise. But for the album cover, we really feel it's best to highlight not a robot, but the band itself. That's a good idea, isn't it, Coran?"

"Er, yes. I would agree."

"Coran!" Allura gasps.

"Apologies, Allura! I'm afraid I… have no say in this."

Of course, he doesn't. He never has a say in anything. At least he has the decency to look sheepish and sink into his chair.

"At least it has one of my requests on it. Space and robots. We got space," Pidge grumbles.

Lance grits his teeth. He wants to argue. The robot was their plan from the beginning, from before they even released _The Rise_. Create an awesome robot that fights evil in space. Give it storylines. You know, like the rise and the return?

Whatever. They're all fuming with bit lips and crossed arms in their seats. The Galra goons smile obliviously and continue discussing with Coran. More stuff about the cover. The lyrics booklet. Whatever! Lance doesn’t have it in him to care after ten more minutes of silent fuming, unable to butt in and complain.

“Is this it?” Lance interrupts when a goon mentions the pressed juice they had for breakfast. “Can we go to rehearsal now?”

“I suppose so,” says another. “There’s some more material, but we can send that over e-mail.”

“Great!” Lance hops up from his seat. He doesn’t bother to hide his distaste. “Can we rehearse at our place? I just remembered I have hot pockets in the freezer.”

“I’m not getting food poisoning from whatever you put in the freezer,” Hunk says with a shudder. “Not again.”

One goon’s lip curls, but Lance shoots him a look and he doesn’t comment.

“You’re right. I have to stay fit and healthy to impress everyone with my beautiful singing,” Lance sighs dramatically.

“You better, because we’re not rehearsing without you,” Allura teases.

The goons pack up their equipment, sliding props back into briefcases Lance really wishes are faux leather. They shake hands with Coran and nod as they begin to exit the room, shooting last comments about stupid promotional materials.

“Yes, we can, Allura! Then we can finally replace his atrocious voice with mine!” Pidge says. Her volume rises with each word, and one of the men gives her an annoyed look. She stares unblinkingly back.

“Your voice is… lovely, Pidge, but if anyone’s good in this band, it’s Hunk.” She puts a hand on Pidge’s shoulde and eases her back into the seat.

“Allura, you flatter me, but I’d die before I set foot in front of a microphone. No thanks,” Hunk says.

“And that’s why you guys have _moi_ ,” Lance says. Bless singer lungs, because he eyes the last goon and talks loudest of all, not a crack in his voice. “I’m the only one brave enough to band us all together and rule the world.”

He scowls and shuts the door. Lance’s posture drops, and he slumps against the back of the chair. Everyone else allows themselves to do the same.

“Holy fuck,” Lance whimpers, considerably quieter, and buries his face in his hands. “RIP in peace Voltron.”

“It’s…fine,” Allura grits out, though her nails digging into the table say otherwise. “It’s only an album cover.”

“We kind of, um, have had that concept since high school, though. It’s only been about four years in the making,” Hunk says.

“Let’s go arrange the funeral.” Lance forces himself upright again and clears his throat. After all, they still have a schedule to finish today. Onto the next thing. “Right after I get my hands on my guitar.”

Coran, for his part, at least looks slightly remorseful. “Shall we pick up some funeral flowers on the way over?”

Everyone grunts in agreement as he leads them out of the room again like a mother and her ducklings. As Lance leans against Hunk for support, his phone screen lights up in his thin fabric joggers.

He wonders if it’s from Keith, then chases the idea away because it’s stupid. Still, the phone burns against his thigh. He honestly, really can’t wait to pick up that guitar. Stupid album cover. Stupid Keith.

 

. . .

 

It’s something in the way the steel of the frets and the strings dig into the calloused pads of his fingers. Something in the way the body of an acoustic guitar presses into his chest and the strap scratches the soft skin of his neck. Something in the way each guitar reminds him of every guitar before it, down to the toy blue one he smashed at two years old. Good old Blue.

He feels it now, nestled close to him, watching Pidge for the countdown. Her face scrunches in a pout as she stares at her drums. She’s thinking what they’re all thinking: how do you rehearse after finding out your album isn’t going to be what you thought it would?

“Okay, should we run it from the top?” Pidge asks, twirling a drumstick absently in each hand.

“Wait, let me record that,” Lance says, digging his phone from his pocket. “Hunk, play some background. Ready, Pidge?”

He hits record. Pidge pouts in confusion.

“Wait, what do you want me to do, Lance?” she asks. Hunk cackles in the background and begins a walking bassline.

“That thingy with your drumsticks! Don’t play dumb, Pidgeon!”

Pidge rolls her eyes and twirls the drumsticks again, bobbing her head to the beat.

“You trying to make me look stupid, McClain?”

Lance laughs and turns the camera to Hunk, who jerks around with the bass. Allura shakes her head and bites back a smile from where she sits on her stool, electric guitar held loosely on her lap. Lance captures that, too, with a snicker of his own.

He stops recording, taps a few buttons, and posts it to Snapchat. Daily Snapchat quota—filled.

"There. You look handsome as always, Pidgey. Let's run it from the top," he says, setting the phone down on his own stool. Pidge giggles and straightens her terrible posture.

He takes his place. The microphone is turned off, but the familiarity of it before him has the same effect as the guitar. It's natural to stand there, whether it's for song writing, fucking around, or the occasional serious practice.

Allura remains seated, laser focused on the fingerboard of her guitar. She concentrates best on her complicated runs that way, while Lance charms the crowd and plays chords. He can kill the rare solo, but Allura's a badass at what she does. Why would Lance give himself a solo when Allura can do the same thing ten times better? Allura and her guitar are Hollywood couple goals. Just like, apparently, Lance and Keith Kogane.

Lance blinks back into the present, taking his eyes off Allura's deft fingers and to the rest of the room. Pidge counts off a beat with her drumsticks. As she crashes the snare, Lance strikes the first chord on the acoustic. Music busts into the rehearsal room, lifting the unsung sighs from Lance's chest.

After four bars, he sidles up to the microphone and begins singing, loud and open. Breathe control, pitch, posture, everything pushes aside lingering thoughts. Goddamn, it feels good. Good to feel the pressure in his chest, the music thrumming in his veins.

Halfway through the chorus, though, Keith's comment worms its way into his mind.

_“The way you act with that microphone,” Keith drawls, looking up at Lance through his long eyelashes. “I’m surprised nobody figured it out before now.”_

The visceral memory of Keith’s hooded eyes throws him into a cough and he steps clumsily back. His fingers stiffen, he loses his spot, and the beats morph together in his fumble. Fuck, focus, McClain. He blinks the image away. Halfway through the chord progression, a telltale note on the bass, and—he finds his place and comes in again for the second verse.

Jesus. Lance makes a quick note to himself to Google a Voltron performance and put Keith’s words out of his mind for good. He probably lied! Said it to fluster him. Come on, focus.

The song peters out with the last few taps on the hi hat. After a few moments, Lance opens his eyes and finds Hunk pouting.

“Was that you at the end, Hunk?” he asks.

“Yeah. Sorry, can we do it again? From the second chorus?”

They all nod, and Pidge counts off again.

Lance closes his eyes by the time they hit the bridge, letting the rhythm and the words course through his muscle memory. “Reunion” is one off the new album and maybe the most unique. The chords and electric guitar parts are simple, but the bass and drums are where the party happens. It’s one of those rare songs based off a cool drumline Pidge picked up instead of Lance’s songwriting notebook.

The last chorus. Pidge’s drumsticks speed up, hitting each beat, half beat, and triplet in quick succession.

“ _I can’t believe you found me_ ,” Lance belts, the bassline accompanying in harmony. “ _I can’t believe you found me_.”

As the last notes ring out and Pidge smashes the hi hat, Lance’s phone lights up on the stool.

“Pidge, that was phenomenal,” Allura gushes as Lance picks up the phone. Twitter. “And Hunk, I think you hit every note that time.”

“Yay! You think it’s television worthy?”

“It better be,” Lance says absently as he opens the notification. “Because if it isn’t, Sendak’s never going to let us play it on a televised show again.”

@Keith_Kogane — @lanceymcclain what does SMH mean?

A laugh bubbles out of Lance, so sudden he slaps a hand over his mouth. Allura raises her eyebrow when Lance glances around to see if anyone caught it.

“Sorry! That playthrough sounded badass. We just, uh, need to keep practicing so we know it by memory.”

“I agree,” Allura says. “Sendak gave us a chance with ‘Reunion’.”

Pidge taps out the rhythm from the chorus in lieu of an answer. Lance turns back to the phone.

“Whatcha smiling about, there?” Hunk asks.

“Oh, Keith doesn’t know what ‘SMH’ means,” Lance says, half of his attention still on the phone. He replies so fast that he doesn’t see that Keith’s tweeted him something else.

@Keith_Kogane — @lanceymcclain Also, I kinda liked meeting in suits. You look good in one. We should do that again sometime.

“Holy shit,” Lance mutters, definitely not low enough for Allura not to catch him.

“Oh? What did Keith say this time?”

“Nothing! I mean, he’s definitely meeting the requirements.”

Pidge whips her phone out. Ah, shit.

“From Keith, to Lance. ‘I kinda liked meeting in suits. You look good in one’,” she reads, then fakes a wretch. “Someone actually complimented your weird fashion sense! He’s a good fake boyfriend.”

“This Keith guy really knows how to lay it on thick, doesn’t he?” Hunk says.

“He’s Mr. Romance.” Lance waves him off. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Mr. Romance?” Hunk and Allura exchange a subtle glance over Lance’s shoulder.

“’Cause he does all those romantic movies. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. What the fuck do I say to a guy I’m supposed to be in a fake romance with telling me he likes me in a suit?”

“Well, you’re both Mr. Romance. Just give him one of your classic lines. You know, ‘Girl, you should see me without one.’ Or boy, I guess,” Hunk suggests.

Again, Keith’s face, subtly lit in the dim bar lighting, materializes before him. He can’t, oh God. Not to that jawline.

Lance shakes it out of his head and hits the reply button.

@lanceymcclain — @Keith_Kogane SMH.

@hunksorangeheadband – JUST DM ALREADY.

 

. . .

 

The tabloids go fucking wild. So does Twitter. So does Lance, when he wakes up groggy as hell the morning of his fake date with his fake love interest and rolls over to check his phone.

The first thing he sees isn’t the Twitter notification from Keith or the all caps text from Coran, but a simple message from his mother.

From The Mothership. _Call me_.

Great. Just great. In the middle of all the chaos, Lance forgot his mom.

He whines into his pillow before he forces himself to roll out of bed, throwing ten blankets onto the floor. He pads out of his room, phone in hand, to the kitchen, where Hunk already hums a tune over the stove. Hunk turns around spinning a fork between his fingers, the notes of ‘The Hunted’ leaping off his tongue.

“Bacon?” Lance asks hopefully, then joins in on the tune.

“Fake-on,” Hunk says with a grin before returning to his stove duty. “Shay is coming over. I told you that, right?”

“Nope, buddy, you didn’t. You’re a fake friend for having a crush on a vegetarian.”

“She’s vegan, and you should get dressed for your date with your fake boyfriend.”

Oh, right. Ugh. Fake date. Fake boyfriend. A text from Mom. Was the text fake, too, or does he truly have to answer it?

“I need to call my mom first,” Lance grumbles, plopping down at the breakfast bar. Calling his mom is always easier here, while Hunk cooks. Maybe Hunk can’t understand Spanish, but just watching him is nice. Distracting.

The line only rings twice before a familiar, warm voice picks up on the other end.

“Leandro?” Rosa McClain greets. The Spanish envelopes Lance’s heart, soothing and tugging at the cords. Lance practically melts into the countertop with just the sound of his real name on his mother’s tongue.

“Hey, Mamá,” he replies, resting his forehead on the cool marble. “What’s up?”

“Oh, honey. You don’t have to ask me that. How are you feeling? That’s more important.”

“I’m—” His breath hitches, and he wills himself to calm down. One, two, three. “I’m good. Really, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? Because I saw what happened at the Grammy’s. You never called me afterward. I got worried, _mijo._ ”

“Yeah, that’s – it’s fine. The pap was out of line, but so was I. You know how it is out here.”

“Sometimes I don’t, Leandro. I really don’t.”

She falls quiet, just the sound of her breath crackling over the phone. There are faint voices in the background, the shrieks of his niece and nephew. Lance screws his eyes shut, focusing his attention on deciphering their words. It’s no use. They’re too far away.

“You’re not going to tell me how you’re coping,” Rosa finally says, her voice soft. “But just know that I’m here for you. I’m always a phone call away. Or a plane ride, if time permits. You know, there’s a direct flight from Los Angeles to Miami. And from Miami to Havana…”

“I know, Mamá, I know. You don’t have to tell me; I Google prices twice a week. Is that all you wanted me to call you for?”

Lance lifts his head, scrubbing the expression off his face. Hunk still hums as he works, gathering various cartons from the fridge and dumping them onto the counter. Lance counts the spices next to them. Mm, Hunk’s omelets.

“No. I also wanted to remind you that you made me a Twitter last year, and I still get notifications for everything you tweet.”

“You don’t!” Lance gasps. Hunk stops for a moment, then continues cooking.

“I’m just saying, _mijo_! Don’t think I haven’t read the articles, either! Veronica showed me how to use Google, you know. I don’t know who this Keith Kogane is, but she’s freaking out about it.”

Lance pulls the phone away from his ear and curses under his breath. He didn’t even _think_ about telling his family.

“Um, haha,” Lance says. “I forgot that she likes his movies so much.”

“Will you get a selfie with him and send it to your sister, Leandro? She misses you. I think she’s kind of mad you didn’t tell her you met him.”

“Well! Um, I’ll do that! Tell her I’ll do that!” Lance cringes, pinching his nose. He exhales slowly through his mouth. “I miss you guys. Everyone, even little Sylvio. Is he still teething?”

“Little Sylvio is over the worst of it. He’ll be chewing real food by the time you come home next.” She laughs, high and warm. “And we miss you, too. I hope you’re still happy all the way in Los Angeles.”

“I am. I’m happy. Don’t worry.” Hunk flips an omelet onto a paper plate and slides it over the counter. Lance beams at him and nods a thanks. “Can we do a real catch-up later this week? Where I call, and you tell me everything, even Blanca’s grades?”

“Of course, Leandro. I know you’re busy.”

“Yeah. I love you, Mamá.”

“I love you, too, _mijo_. Goodbye.”

“Bye,” Lance says, and the line goes dead.

Lance spears the first bite of omelet and stuffs it in his mouth before he can think any further.

“Did you know that my mom still gets my Twitter notifications?” he says around the mouthful.

“… Then I’m really glad you didn’t take my suggestion,” Hunk says.

Lance grins. He glances at the time on the stove and starts with the realization that it’s almost ten.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “I still have to shower. The car’s picking me up soon.”

“Shay’s getting here in ten minutes, so don’t be naked. That’s my roommate stipulation.”

“Stipulation received.”

Lance scarfs down the rest of Hunk’s glorious omelet, tells him as such, and frisbees the paper plate into the trash.

The hot shower isn’t as soothing as Lance hoped it would be, and the residual tendrils of homeliness offered by his mother’s voice dissipate in the steam. When he gets out, dries off, and wraps a towel around his hair and waist, he feels just the same as he did when he went to sleep; tight with anxiety, right around his chest.

“Shay’s here!” Hunk yells down the hallway when Lance slips back into his room.

“Hi, Shay!” he calls back.

“Hello, Lance! It’s so good to see you again!” she says, her voice warm like honey. No wonder Hunk likes her. He’s a glutton for sweets.

“You, too!”

Lance shuts his door and turns to the closet. Okay. Twenty minutes left. He needs to pick a date outfit.

What do you wear to a fake date? A fake date with a boy, no less? Lance wrings his hands, seeking anything that pops out of the cacophony of color in his closet.

Lance McClain has been on dates. It’s practically an item in his contract. The fans know what he looks like on dates, too. Always a button-up and some tight jeans. It’s classy, enticing, and a surefire way to get the girl – especially if you leave the top two buttons open.

But what about with guys? Did guys like two buttons open? Did they prefer patterned or plain shirts? Tight or tighter jeans? What about _Keith?_

Lance presses his palms to his cheeks. He’s okay. He can do this. A date with Keith Kogane. The guy likes to wear red, right? Lance can contrast with blue. Or maybe compliment with pink?

Fuck. He needs Hunk. He desperately needs a big guy to pick out his outfit like a spotty pre-teen. Lance opens his door and leans out.

“Hunk? My big man?” he calls. Hunk replies with something like a grunt. “Can you help me?”

“I’m kind of busy over here,” Hunk says.

“It’s okay,” Shay says, barely audible from down the hallway.

“He has a date. Well, kind of. I knew he’d ask for help,” Hunk explains.

“Ooh, a date? I would love to help!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Lance, we’re coming!”

The two of them appear like a picture, like two angels descended from heaven. Shay, especially. They’ve only known each other for a short while. Hunk met Shay at some shindig with an up-and-coming catering company. There, like a meet-cute in a Kogane movie, Shay handed Hunk a plate with a perfectly cooked eggplant parmesan—and the rest is history.

Well, not really. That was last month. And Hunk is, like, the type of guy to take it incredibly slow. Slower than tectonic plates, practically.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting any girls over,” Lance says as Shay shuffles in, her hands clasped in front of her. She’s as broad as Hunk and just as huggable-looking, a cuddly sculpture of deep brown skin over muscle and bright, honey eyes.

“I don’t mind,” she says, though she eyes the mess with a twinkle in her eye. Her massive gold hoop earrings dangle every time she moves. “I love picking outfits for dates. What do you have in mind?”

“Um, okay,” Lance stutters. He belatedly realizes he’s still in nothing but a towel slung around his waist, thanks to Hunk’s pained expression. Stipulation… not received. “I was thinking the usual button up and jeans. But I’m not sure what kind of jeans, or which button up. Maybe blue? And I don’t know if I should do patterned or if that’s too much. Maybe I should do plain, because it’s easier on the cameras—”

Hunk interrupts him with a hand on either shoulder.

“Calm down, man,” Hunk says. “Take a breath.”

“Cameras? That’s… quite a date,” Shay says. Lance and Hunk both groan a little.

“Do you wanna tell her?” Hunk asks, withdrawing his hands. Lance looks away sheepishly, then shrugs.

“Sure, why not. If you two are a thing, then Shay should know.”

Hunk and Shay’s eyes both widen at ‘a thing’, and Lance counts it as a victory.

“Did you see the photo of Lance and Keith Kogane at the Galra Records After Party the other day?” Hunk asks. She nods. “Yeah, well. I don’t know how to say this, but, basically, our manager and a Galra exec, Sendak—he’s the worst, you’ll meet him one day—decided it would be an awesome opportunity to do a fake romance.”

“A… what?”

“A fake relationship. I’m in one. For promotion, damage control, whatever reason you think fits best. It sucks. I have a date for it.”

“Oh, wow. I do not know how I should react.” Shay blinks, bewildered, then gestures to the closet. “So… there will be cameras?”

“That’s the goal,” Lance sighs.

Shay steps up to his closet and looks at the two button ups Lance pulled a little farther out. She taps a finger against her chin and hums.

“Blue,” she decides, holding the shirt in front of her. “Lightly patterned, for compromise. And the matching blue jeans. Oh! And this belt. There. A casual lunch date for a fake relationship.”

“You,” Lance says, taking Shay by the shoulders. “I wanna keep you.”

She blushes, puts a hand over her chest, and says, “Oh, stop. Come out when you are ready and let me see.”

“Okay, give me a minute.”

He steps out into the kitchen, where Hunk and Shay have returned to eating their traitorous fake-on and stir-fried veggies.

“Wow! That’s a good look,” Shay says. Hunk hums in approval.

“Good, because the car is already downstairs.”

“Cologne?” Hunk asks.

“Check.”

“Keys? Wallet? Picture of Pidge as a toddler for blackmail?”

“Check, check, and definitely check.”

“Hair?”

“Triple checked. The cameras don’t lie these days.”

“You’re good to go, then, buddy. I salute you.”

Lance backs up to the front door and brings his hand up in a return salute. Shay giggles and salutes, too.

“Definitely keeping you!” Lance shouts, and he’s out the door.

 

. . .

 

The car ride to Keith’s apparent restaurant of choice is shorter than Lance wants it to be. It’s quiet, too quiet with just the driver and no Coran or security guard. Coran texts him seven times on the way over, but when the car deposits him on the sidewalk to a beachside restaurant, he feels intensely without direction.

From The Coran-ager. _Don’t pay attention to the camera. Let the camera pay attention to YOU!_

From The Coran-ager. _But make sure that the cameras we sent are there!_

From The Coran-ager. _Pull some of your classic Loverboy Lance moves! But remember your fans are young! But make it obvious!_

Lance might just hurl is fucking phone into the ocean.

At least here, at this thatched hut monstrosity, there are enough celebrities around that people know not to come up to him. This part of town never catches attention. Maybe this time being mobbed by paparazzi _would_ be a good thing.

Lance fingers the keys and phone in his pocket as he walks up to the lectern, equally thatched and monstrous. The bored girl in a black shirt does a double take and schools her expression into neutrality within a millisecond.

“For one?” she asks nonchalantly, peering around him for a sign of anyone else. Arriving alone? That’s an odd one for Lance McClain.

“Um, actually. I’m on a reservation for Kogane?”

Her jaw tenses, then relaxes. She glances at a screen behind the lectern and says, “Right this way, sir.”

The server leads him through a maze of tables to the terrace out back. There, under the gray clouds, is Keith Kogane, alone at a four-person table and staring over the terrace wall to the sea down below.

“Your table,” she says. Keith picks his chin up from the palm of his hand.

The server gets their drink orders and awkwardly shuffles away, clearly restraining herself from checking over her shoulder. So much for this part of town. Maybe it’ll get her a few retweets.

“Hey,” Lance says, taking the seat opposite Keith.

What the fuck do you say to a fake date when said date is the third time meeting them? Lance’s heart stutters the same way it did at the party when Keith faces Lance. For a moment, he just appreciates the red button up, top few buttons undone, and—sunglasses. He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Do you always wear sunglasses out when it’s cloudy?”

Keith snorts and takes off the aviators, revealing the eye bags underneath.

“No. Just on days where I get a half-hour of sleep,” he says. His eyes trail over Lance. “You fix up nice.”

“Um, thanks. It’s not a suit, but…” He scratches the back of his neck nervously. Maybe Keith won’t notice that he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence.

Keith tilts his chin, looking at Lance with a curiously blank expression.

“This isn’t a real—”

“I’m not an idiot, Keith,” Lance says, drumming his fingers on the table. “I’m just gonna be the bigger man and admit that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“Could’ve told you that,” Keith says. “But you’ve been on dates before.”

“Yeah, but… This is really fucking awkward.” He glances around the terrace and drops the volume of his voice. Other guests give them a wide berth, but he can’t be too sure who’s listening. “You feel awkward, too, right?”

“I guess,” Keith shrugs. “Why?”

“I don’t know! We meet once at a party, and the second time we’re signing away the next three months of our romantic lives to a contract. That isn’t exactly…” He flails his arms in lieu of an explanation. Thankfully, Keith nods like he understands.

“This is a shit fake relationship,” Keith says matter-of-fact.

“Yeah.” Lance’s shoulders deflate. Maybe he should have expected Keith to be so… frank. “I mean, um. All I know about you is that you don’t have any sense of Internet grammar.” And anything from the press videos Pidge marathoned in Lance’s vicinity. “We should… re-introduce ourselves.”

“Okay.” Keith’s face is still disinterested, but his voice sounds like he might be listening. “I’m Keith. Anything you want to know, you can find out on my Wikipedia page.”

Lance scoffs. This whole bored bad boy persona is starting to grate on his nerves. There’s gotta be something underneath that, underneath the crossed arms and calculating gaze. He was an asshole at the after party, all flirting this and weakness that, but he also told Lance to be proud of coming out… Lance just can’t figure him out.

“If I want to memorize your entire repertoire, I’d do that. We’re obviously going to spend time together. We can’t be strangers the whole time,” he says.

“You mean you _haven’t_ read my Wiki?” Keith asks.

“Uh…” Lance looks at the tiki hut table sheepishly. Maybe press videos aren’t the only thing Pidge researched in his vicinity. “Definitely not. Have you?”

“Yep.”

Well. Lance doesn’t know what to do with that information. He sticks out his hand instead.

“The name’s Lance. The fans think that we cancelled a meet-and-greet last year over security reasons, but all of us ate bad sushi the night before and spent the whole time before the show in the toilets.”

“Oh my God.” Finally, _finally_ , a smile flickers across his lips, and he bites back a chuckle as he tentatively shakes Lance’s hand. He’s warm. “Fine. Okay. While on set for _Love on Daibazaal_ , Rolo puked in a set piece and didn’t tell anyone. They blamed it on the background actors.”

Lance barks a laugh, drawing the attention of a family two tables over. He slaps a hand over his mouth, much to Keith’s amusement.

“We are officially re-introduced, but if we need to do this again, I have many stories from the battlefields of Hunk’s sensitive digestive system.”

Keith rolls his eyes with what might be fondness and runs a hand through his hair, messing up the already unbrushed locks. Or maybe they just look like that. Lance can’t tell anymore. He watches the movement anyway. He should look away.

“So… why here?” Lance asks, gesturing to the place. “Thatched roof? Cocktails with little umbrellas?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not the type to enjoy a cocktail with an umbrella.”

“I’m not going to deny that, because I’m proud of myself and my own definition of masculinity.”

Keith cracks another grin, another small reminder of the night at the Grammy’s. Lance realizes with a start that he’s a lot different in the daylight. No more leaning across the table, doling out touches like candy on Halloween. Instead, this whole time he’s been burrowed into himself with his arms wrapped around his waist, keeping an air of indifference.

“You’re weird, McClain,” he says. “Anyway, I chose this place because of the terrace. That’s all.”

He gestures to the other side of the wall, and Lance looks down to a cement patio jutting out over the ocean instead of the water he expected. Already, the distant figure of a man sits on a bench facing them, enormous black camera in hand. Keith waves.

Whatever previous semblance of peace Lance felt vanishes, replaced only by the knowledge of the camera pointed towards them. Right. They’re on a fake date. Lance should be acting date-y.

“There. They have their photos,” Keith says. The server returns with their drinks, drawing their attentions away from the patio.

“Are you two ready to order?” she asks.

Ah, shit. The menu. Lance’s mind is still on the camera. It’s strange, having it purposefully pointed at you. It’s not like it’s never happened before; cameras have practically been his life for the last two years. And Galra’s pulled stunts with set up cameras before, but never… as staged as this. It tightens the cords around his chest, that feeling of being watched.

Wait, fuck. The menu.

“Um—”

“I’ll have the rock fish with lemon rice. He’ll have the fish and chips,” Keith says.

She glances between them, purses her lips, and writes it down. She takes their menus and heads back.

“Fish and chips?” Lance asks. God, this guy can be frustrating. How the hell did he get fish and chips out of his stupid observation? “You think my sophisticated taste likes fish and chips? I live with Hunk; I don’t do fish and chips.”

“These are good. Trust me, it’s not regular fish and chips,” he says as he twirls a straw wrapper between his fingers. “So, you’ve mentioned Hunk twice. Who is he?”

“You didn’t read it on the Wiki page?”

“I dunno. Probably,” Keith shrugs. “Tell me about him.”

That’s how Lance spills the drama on all his band mates and Keith listens with what Lance swears is rapt interest. He talks about Allura, about how she’s a goddess on a guitar and the best model of the group.

“I beg to differ,” Keith smirks.

Lance stutters and moves on to Pidge, the little gremlin who hits the drums like a caffeine-crazed demon and doesn’t act any less in person.

“You’d like her,” Lance says.

“Am I a fellow gremlin?” Keith asks.

“No, but everyone likes her. She’s pretty fucking adorable.”

Then Hunk, the big cuddle bug with a heart of gold and a bass to match.

“He’s the cook?”

“That’s the understatement of the year. Even on a tour bus, he manages to whip something up.”

Two plates of food slide in front of them. A beautiful rock fish on a mound of steaming rice, and… fish and chips.

“It’s the taste. Trust me,” Keith says. “Can Hunk cook for me sometime?”

“You don’t want me to cook for you? We’re dating, after all.”

Lance falters after that slips out of his mouth, the tips of his ears burning red. He glances up at Keith to see his reaction, but Keith only grins.

“Nah. I’ve seen your Snapchat stories. You burned a pot of rice.”

“What! You watched those? Then why did you ask me to tell you about the band?”

“Because it made you less nervous,” he shrugs. “Just like the, uh, re-introducing thing. Plus, now I know that you call Pidge a gremlin behind her back.”

Lance bites down a retort with a piece of fried fish, and… oh. That is good. Maybe he’ll let Keith’s comment pass… once.

“Man, this _is_ good,” he says, his eyes fluttering shut. “What is this sorcery? What went into this? Is this the fish of the gods?”

“Um, don’t look now,” Keith interrupts. Lance opens his eyes and finds Keith staring at him with a funny look. “But there’s a few more of them down there.”

“Down…” he trails off and looks at the patio. Now there’s four, each on separate benches for different angles. Zips of electricity spark up Lance’s arms. “We didn’t call those in, did we?”

“Nope. Not my team, either. Should we… do something?”

Lance gulps. This is the moment. As Coran would say, he should pull one of his Loverboy Lance moves. But when he looks back at Keith, at the slope of his eyebrows, the slight tension of his jaw, the odd expression in his beautifully enormous fucking eyes, his brain stutters.

“I don’t—I don’t know. If you want. I mean—”

And Keith leans forward onto his elbows, the funny look changing into a curious one.

“I’m really wondering where that fun and flirty personality disappears to,” he says. “You’re so confident. I watched you hit on two girls at the Grammy’s party. You’re fine talking about digestive systems. Is it something about me?”

“What? No! No,” Lance protests. “You’re crazy, Keith. It’s not—”

“It’s what you said that night,” he continues, ignoring Lance. “I didn’t teach you anything, did I? Come on, do that thing you do with every girl.”

“With… what? What thing?”

“You know,” Keith says, like Lance has any idea what he knows. He takes one more bite of fish and rice and stands up. Lance’s chest pounds as Keith rounds the table and pulls his new chair close. “The thing.”

He throws an arm over Lance’s shoulder, his hand coming to rest over Lance’s collarbone. Oh, God. Keith’s breath ghosts over the shell of his ear.

“This thing?” Lance breathes.

“The arm over the shoulder. The closeness. I’m not a touchy person, but for the cameras? I can do this. Plus, you smell nice.”

Keith sets his plate down on this side of the table and continues eating, keeping his arm in place. Lance schools his heart back to a normal pace and picks up his fork. He’s fine. He’s okay! It’s just Keith doing his thing! He peeks over the terrace again at the cameras. Just sitting on one side of the table with Keith so close he can barely concentrate. No biggie.

“You wanna know what I just realized?” Lance asks before he can bite his tongue.

“What?”

 _That it’s going to be painfully hard pretending I’m attracted to you when I’m_ actually _attracted to you_.

“You popped my date-with-a-boy cherry, and this isn’t even a real date.”

 Keith snorts an unexpected laugh, letting his fork fall back to his plate.

“You always say the first thing that comes to your mind,” he says. “I’m sorry. I know this probably isn’t how you envisioned coming out would go.”

“Nah, it’s cool. It’s Gucci. It’s, uh. You didn’t agree to this, either.”

“Okay then,” Keith says. “I guess we’re both hating this together.”

Lance glances down again. Six of them, all on the patio, snapping picture after picture of ‘Hollywood’s New Darling Couple’ cuddled together on one side of a table.

This is going to be excruciating.

 

. . .

 

@lanceylance OK. WE NEED TO REACH A CONSENSUS. KLANCE OR LAITH?

@alicelovespidge — @lanceylance Laith! It sounds so pretty!!!

@hunksorangeheadband — @lanceylance WTF no way. It’s klance, no challenge. What’s a laith?? It’s KLANCE.

@keith_kogayne — @lanceylance KLANCE. THAT’S SO CATCHY.

@Keith_Kogane I vote for Laith. Klance is just Lance with a ‘K’ in front.

@lanceylance — @Keith_Kogane SKFJKSDFSJKDFSKF WHATT TOIF

Pidge snorts and chucks her phone at Lance.

“Were you ever going to let us weigh in on this debate?” she asks. “Blasphemy! Laith? That sounds like a disease!”

“Hear, hear!” Lance says.

“But Laith is so pretty,” Allura says. “Like… it’s so soft.”

“That’s why it doesn’t work,” Hunk argues. “You need something with _oomph_ to it. It’s gotta be catchy for the rags, right? So, it’s Klance.”

“Hunk, you’re a genius. Now I have something to back up my argument.”

Lance throws Pidge’s phone back to her and takes out his own.

@lanceymcclain — @Keith_Kogane ¾ of Voltron says Klance so we WIN, hahaha.

The reply is almost immediate.

@Keith_Kogane — @lanceymcclain I will not back down.

@lanceylance — @Keith_Kogane @lanceymcclain WHO DIDN’T WANT KLANCE IN LANCE’S LITERAL BAND?

Before Lance can reply, a message from Coran obscures his screen.

From The Coran-ager. _Keep it up!!! Sendak and the press are loving it!!!! :D_

He looks up and peers around suspiciously. “Who taught Coran what an emoji is?”

Pidge raises her hand sheepishly.

“No. You didn’t teach my uncle about emojis,” Allura gasps.

“I kinda did.”

“No! He—” A buzz on her phone cuts her off. “He just sent me fifty smiley faces.”

“Allura, this fan wants to know which one of us didn’t want Klance for the official ship name,” Lance says. “Do you want to besmirch your good name, or shall I?”

Allura laughs when she receives the tweet in the DMs.

“Oh, I’ll break it to her sweetly,” she smiles. The sound of her nails on glass follows quickly.

@Allura1994 — @lanceylance I’m sorry but it’s me. Laith just sounds too pretty to pass up

From The Coran-ager. _By the way… I choose Klance._

“Coran votes for Klance. Oh, I have to tweet that,” Lance says, then pauses. “Am I tweeting at Keith too much? Is this normal?”

“None of it is normal. You’re fake dating and fans have a ship name. Tweet away, my good friend,” Hunk says.

@lanceymcclain — @Keith_Kogane The Coran-ager says KLANCE, so this debate is OVER.

“Okay! We’re shutting our phones off. Any more interactions and they’ll go crazy,” Hunk proclaims. He holds his hands out for everyone’s phones, and they dutifully place them in his open palms. Lance only groans once while doing it, which is a new record for him. “Alright. What’s the movie?”

“ _Shrek_ ,” Pidge says, slamming her hands on the couch.

Lance shoves her to the side and says, “ _Star Wars_!”

“ _Die Hard: Naxcela_!” Allura shouts. “Pidge, you chose the movie time last time, and Lance, we are not watching another Star Wars movie. I win.”

“Doesn’t Hunk get a choice?”

“I choose _Naxcela_ ,” Hunk says as he stuffs the phones behind the cushion of the couch.

They’re in Allura’s apartment this time, right across the hall. Pidge and her brother, Matt, live a little farther down, but Matt has a huge exam in the morning for his boring college, so Pidge elected Allura’s apartment as their non-messy movie time spot. As Hunk gets up, Lance lays his head on Allura’s bony shoulder and snuggles into the blankets. A thought pops into his head, seeing his closest friends lounging around him.

“Can I ask something before we start?”

DVD in hand, Hunk shrugs and says, “Sure, go ahead.”

Lance bites his lip.

“Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“Well, we knew that already,” Pidge says. Allura points a finger at her in warning. “I mean, no ideas are stupid, Lance, just like you always say. Tell us anyway.”

It’s kind of stupid. Keith at Voltron movie night? He wouldn’t fit in. The dude’s not touchy, first of all, and second, he’s—he’s Keith. He’s weird. Lance barely knows him.

“I was…just gonna say that it’s blasphemy I have to share a blanket with Allura while you and Hunk get your own blankets.”

“And whose fault is that for not doing laundry?” Hunk says with a grin.

“Don’t you dare,” Allura says. “We’ve been busy!”

“I guess it doesn’t matter, princess. I like cuddling with you, anyway,” Lance says, which earns a playful shove. “Wait. One more thing. Can I have my phone back?”

“You’re not gonna tweet Keith or something, are you?”

“Hunk, my man, don’t you remember what we always do on movie night?”

Hunk sighs and hands Lance his phone. He taps out one more tweet and shoves the phone between the couch cushions in favor of cuddling with Allura again. She scratches at his scalp, just how she knows he likes, and he sighs.

@lanceymcclain – Voltron movie night!! We’re watching die hard naxcela. What do u guys think of it??

For tonight, their social media duties are over. Lance doesn’t bother looking at the replies, even when he retrieves his phone and lumbers across the hall with Hunk. Not when he falls into his bed and knocks out cold. Sometimes, it feels good to exist away from it all, even if just for a few hours.

 

. . .

 

“This is awkward. This is awkward, right? It’s awkward,” Lance says, wringing his hands.

“It’s a little awkward,” Hunk says from his position hunched over Lance’s laptop. A large-lettered headline covers half the page, followed by a pap picture from Keith’s terrace date.

_Lance McClain and Keith Kogane All Cuddled Up—OMG!_

“Tiger Beat always knows how to make it awkward,” Pidge says as she patters her drumsticks against her knees. “What does it say?”

“Something about snuggling on the terrace,” Hunk says. “Wow, they’re really interested. Is this… fake relationship thing actually working?”

“I don’t know! Is it?” Lance curls up on the floor next to Pidge, who proceeds to tap out a rhythm on his knees instead. A steady three-three-two syncopation. The motion relaxes the tension built up in his chest. Three, three, two. Relax Lance, two.

“It’s all over Twitter and the gossip sites,” Hunk says. “You guys really know how to play it up. Isn’t the arm over the shoulder thing your move, Lance?”

“Oh, yeah! You used it on Plaxum all the time.” Pidge’s beat speeds up, and Lance groans and lets his head fall back against the foam board wall.

“Yeah…” Lance trails off. When Hunk glances up from the laptop and raises an eyebrow, he feigns incredible interest in the bass trap on the opposite side of the rehearsal room. Guilt floods his veins. Even though it was very much a fake date, something about Keith’s actions feels intensely private. “He’s an actor, you know. He does this romance stuff for a living.”

“How does it feel to be on the receiving end of his romance act?” Pidge asks.

Exhilarating. Stupidly terrifying. All the touches he archives—the fingers on his jaw, the arm over his shoulder, the breath on his ear—are not something he entirely wants to acknowledge.

“It’s awkward,” Lance says instead. “I mean, we’ve watched how many of his movies on Voltron movie night?”

“Four, including _My Prom Date the Vampire,_ ” Hunk supplies. “Keith was the vampire, of course.”

Oh, fuck. Lance forgot about that one. He covers his face with his hands and wills the vivid image of teenage Keith Kogane with fangs out of his mind.

“Four movies. And then the third time I meet the guy, it’s on a fake date after we fake flirted on Twitter. That’s _awkward_.”

“Oh, and he still hasn’t met any of us. Or you any of his friends,” Pidge reminds.

“Awkward!”

Lance should probably retire the word ‘awkward’ from his vocabulary. He pouts as he watches Pidge tap on his knees, then takes out his phone, opens Snapchat, and begins a short video.

“Keith should meet us,” Hunk says. “Aw, like a meet-the-parents, except we’re not your parents.”

The video ends, and Lance posts it to his story on autopilot. It’s cute, something he knows the fans will appreciate. Pidge’s drumming is always a big hit, to which Lance agrees wholeheartedly.

“I haven’t asked him yet, Mama Hunk,” Lance says.

“Mr. Social Butterfly hasn’t asked his fake boyfriend to hang out with us?” Pidge gasps. “I’m offended on his behalf.”

“What if it’s awkward?” Lance asks. “There’s no rulebook for this, is there?”

“I mean, fake relationships aren’t a _new_ thing in Hollywood. Also, there’s nothing that says you guys can’t be friends, right?” Hunk says.

He… has a point. Sendak does, too—not that Lance will ever admit that out loud. But Lance thinks about the first time they met, about exploiting observed weaknesses, and something twists in his stomach.

“I don’t know if he wants to be friends,” Lance mumbles.

“I think you guys have to be friends. And if there’s one thing you’re good at, Lance, it’s being a friend.”

“Gee, Hunk. I appreciate that.”

Hunk grins and shuts the laptop.

“Now that we have the covered, Keith is also welcome any time at Casa de Voltron,” he says, gesturing to the rehearsal space.

“Sendak would probably like that.”

“Yeah, that, and if he ever wants to see what his fake boyfriend’s band is about.”

The door to the room opens and Allura slips inside.

“I just received word from Coran,” she says as she sits primly on her stool. “The label’s changed its mind on the release for “The Hunted”. Instead of three weeks from now, we’re releasing it next week. And then we need to help pick a single to release next month.”

“What?!” Lance bolts upright, throwing Pidge’s drumsticks off his knees. “But the—the thing with Keith. The fake dating thing! Sendak said he wanted to wait until the first single release to confirm the relationship.”

Allura nods and sighs.

“That means—” Lance cuts himself and scrambles to his feet for his laptop. When he opens his e-mail, he finds an unread message from Galra HQ. “The schedule is moved forward.”

Okay, cool. No biggie. They were going to wait, hype up the thing, before confirming it. But now?

He looks up and finds his bandmates all gazing at him with worry. He wipe the expression clean off his face and shuts the laptop.

“What? It’s fine! What’s more important is the single. If Sendak thinks that—that it’s enough to hype it, then it’ll do well.”

No one replies for a moment. Then, Allura slips off the stool and picks up her electric by the neck. All white with an iconic blue-and-pink stripe.

“I don’t like this,” she says. Lance can’t tell what she’s referring to. “Let’s worry about the single change in a few hours. First, we need to focus on the synchronization issues in the chorus.”

They don’t, but Lance knows why she chose it. The chorus of “The Hunted” is fast, furious, and enough to take his mind off… everything.

 

 

One-and-a-half weeks. One-and-a-half weeks ago, Keith Kogane didn’t exist in Lance’s life other than the random romantic movie marathon. Today, at approximately three in the afternoon, Lance finds himself conspicuously wandering through a park next to the guy, bumping shoulders occasionally for the benefit of the pap hiding behind the bush a hundred yards away.

“Does he have a wife?” Keith asks.

“Nah. He’s gonna go home to his one cat and eat microwave dinner.”

“What does microwave dinner have to do with a wife?”

“Excuse me, but I’m never marrying anyone that eats microwave dinners regularly beyond the age of thirty.”

“You wouldn’t marry yourself?”

“Hey!” Lance slaps his shoulder. “I’ll have you know that whoever I marry will get the glorious privilege of me making them cereal in the morning. They’ll be lucky to have all this.”

Keith snorts and gives Lance a not-so-secretive unimpressed once-over. “I hope they’re looking forward to it. That guy’s missing out.”

They don’t miss the distant sounds of the camera shutters. Lance glances with hesitation around him to see if anyone’s noticed them yet. It’s unlikely, this early in the morning and at this particular park, but one of Voltron’s security guards trails behind them, just in case.

“I’m sorry about the schedule thing,” Lance says, breaking the quiet.

“’S not your fault,” Keith shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“Well, it’s probably getting in the way of what your life even more, and if you have plans with your actual friends, I’m probably ruining them, and—”

“Lance. It’s fine.”

“Okay, but—”

Keith stops him with a leveled glare, and Lance glances sheepishly away.

“Yeah, okay. I mostly hang out with the band, anyway, so it’s not like it changes much for me,” he says. The camera shutters as they bump shoulders again. “You should meet the band sometime. And I can meet your friends, and—”

“I’ll meet the band,” Keith interrupts. He doesn’t offer any more sentiments. With the way he trains his eyes on the cracks in the sidewalk, it’s almost like…

“Hey.” Lance elbows Keith in the side. “What about Voltron movie night? It’s a kickass night where we watch a movie and pass out from too many snacks. You’re welcome any time.”

Lance hopes he can plainly see the earnest expression on his face.

“Okay,” Keith says after a moment. “I’d like that.”

Lance’s jaw drops. Huh. He didn’t expect that to be so easy. Would it be that easy if he asked to meet with Keith’s friends? He hasn’t mentioned anyone specifically besides Rolo, but—

“Hold my hand,” Keith orders, derailing Lance’s trail of thought.

“What?”

“For the microwave dinner guy. Hold my hand.”

He hesitates at the hand hovering in front of him. Slim, framed by the hoodie sleeve. He takes it and actively ignores how sweaty his palms feel. Keith, of course, because the gods hate Lance, notices. He opens his mouth, probably to say something about Lance’s inability to stay calm when confronted with Keith’s fucking jawline, when Lance extracts his hand. He has a stupid idea.

“Wait,” Lance says. “We can hold hands. Or I can, um, do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“This… thing.”

Heart in his throat, Lance carefully arranges an arm around Keith’s shoulder. On second thought, he tightens the loose grip and pulls him close until he’s tucked into Lance’s side. If he closes his eyes, it could be Plaxum, but the shudder that runs through Keith reminds him of the strong, wide shoulders.

“You’re catching on,” Keith says, clearing his throat. “But I don’t know if that’s your go-to on a walk.”

“I don’t even take walks. Allura can’t drag me to the gym, much less go on _walks_.”

“Really?”

A quick succession of camera shutters interrupts them. Keith stops to face Lance, leaving almost no room for Jesus. He places a hand on either bicep and squeezes, thumb pressing on the inside of his arms.

“I can tell. I’d beat you to a fucking pulp,” he hums, and drops his hands to take Lance’s in his own. More camera shutters.

“That’s—” Lance stutters. Every time he thinks he’s stolen the upper hand, Keith just dares to pull something like this. “That’s romantic.”

A squeal makes Lance’s train of thought screech to a halt. In the midst of _oh, God, he’s shorter than me. He’d have to tilt his head to kiss me_ , a pre-teen girl cradling a soccer ball in her arms sprints up to them.

“Lance McClain! Oh my gosh, Lance! And Keith Kogane!” she cries. “I own your album! Oh my—I don’t—can you sign my ball?!”

Lance drops Keith’s hands like they burned him and powers up a thousand-watt grin for the girl. On second thought, he waves behind him to let the security guard know he’s fine.

“Sure! What’s your name?” he asks. He takes the ball as she fumbles through her pockets, only to come up empty. “That’s okay. We can take a selfie instead.”

She sighs in relief, clearly flustered and shaking like a leaf.

“I’m Lacey! Like Lance, only it’s Lacey. I saw you in concert last year! Can you tell Pidge I said hi? My mom bought me drums because of her!”

“I will definitely relay that information to her. Do you like to play?”

“I _love_ it! Well, my mom doesn’t really like it, but I don’t care!” She fumbles with her phone and pulls up the camera. “I’m gonna play drums like Pidge!”

“Should I take it?” Lance asks. She nods so fast her neck almost snaps, and Lance takes the phone.

Keith steps aside, content to let the two of them take their picture, but Lacey shakes her head.

“You can join us, Keith. Lacey and I don’t bite,” Lance says. Lacey practically melts when Keith joins in the frame. “One, two…”

He snaps the photo. Lacey takes her phone back with a shaky hand and thanks them profusely. She picks up her ball from where Lance set it down but lingers just a moment too long.

“Um, one more thing,” Lacey mumbles. She glances over her shoulder at the mother standing yards away, then looks hesitantly back at Lance. “It’s really cool that you, um, came out. Like, thank you. My best friend says she’s bi, and she’s really happy about it.”

“Oh,” is all Lance can say when he follows her line of sight. The mother stands stock still, her pronounced frown visible even to Lance. Only when Keith nudges him does he register Lacey’s kind words. “Thanks a ton, Lacey. That means a lot to me.”

It does. She beams again, more thanks spilling from her lips, and then she’s off, zooming down the sidewalk to a waiting parental figure. Just before following her daughter, she returns Lance’s gaze with a sharp glare.

It’s funny. Lance boasts millions of followers, has sold out venues, and is about to release an anticipated second album. But one disapproving mother? Lance’s mind whirs as he tries to figure out what did it. Was it the alley? Keith? Was it holding Keith’s hand? Or Keith’s hands on him, like Lance just might lean down and. He doesn’t know. Offend her.

“Whoa,” Lance mutters. “Lacey was a lot of energy.”

“Perfect for the drums,” Keith says. “I think that selfie is going to be worth a lot more than whatever Microwave Dinner is going to take.”

“Shit, you’re right. I’m picturing the headlines it’ll spawn right now.” He lets himself think about that instead of the girl’s mother.

Keith bumps Lance’s shoulder one more time. After a moment, he squeezes Lance’s hand.

“We should go. I have an audition to practice for.”

He speeds up, walking a little ahead now that their clear destination is the parking lot at the end of the winding path. Lance lets himself lag and study the line of Keith’s back. He’s seen the guy shirtless in plenty movies. Always when the girl pushes him into a pool, or the shower is too inviting to take alone. Here, in a park in the mild Los Angeles winter, his clothes obscure the muscles of which Lance is suddenly viscerally aware.

Lacey’s words bounce in his mind, though. She didn’t ask whether they were together; it wasn’t necessary. That’s what they are to the public now: the blossoming romantic couple of the year. Kogane and McClain. The gay enigma and the bi disappointment.

He shakes his head, schools his face into something akin to happiness, and takes off after Keith.

 

. . .

 

“Lance, you’re a boy genius,” Coran says, his voice staticky over the phone. “You two are both geniuses. Seriously, ship name wars. I don’t know how you do it. And the park walk! Interest has piqued! I should put you in contact with my agent pals.”

“It’s the teenage lingo, Coran,” Lance replies as he weaves through the people on the street. He shoves his sunglasses farther up his nose and pulls down the beanie over his ears, hoping Coran can’t hear the surrounding foot traffic. “You splice the two names together and voila! A relationship. Wanna know what yours and Sendak’s would be?”

“I don’t know if I—”

“Cendak. Or Senan? Oh! Corak. Definitely Corak.”

“Eeeeh, I’ll leave it to you young ones. Now, do you remember that we have a meeting tomorrow at Galra HQ at three? And you have a phone interview with the New York Radio Breakfast Show on Friday morning. It’s with Mickey, you remember him from that children’s award show last year.”

“Yeah, sure,” Lance says. Nah, he doesn’t.

“Just make sure to set your alarm and remember that New York is three hours ahead. After the meeting at three there’s another at five about the single change. I know it’s sudden, but I’m confident about it. After that, you’re done for the day.”

“I can’t—” Someone bumps into his shoulder, skewing the all-important drab jacket of his costume. He tightens it around himself and ducks down. “Hey, Coran, I’ll see you at the meeting. Hunk is, ah, throwing things at me.”

“Tell Hunk to be careful! We can’t have you scratched before the photoshoot next week.”

Fuck. Right, that photoshoot. Photoshoot, single release, confirming the fake relationship. The schedule messes with Lance’s head.

“Can do. Bye, Coran!”

He doesn’t wait to hear Coran’s reply before shoving his phone in his pocket and diving into the shop that is the culmination of his quest. 

“Welcome in,” the shop lady says, and Lance waves. She doesn’t look young enough to know of his existence, but he can’t be too sure. The jacket hasn’t failed him yet, though.

He prowls along the aisles of the record exchange. It’s a quiet reprieve from the busy street outside. Not nearly hipster enough for a big crowd, but not mainstream enough to earn an honest living. In the back, beyond the records and CDs, is a massive wall of DVDs, all of them rare or special edition.

“Need any help?” she asks, sidling up to him as he blinks wildly at the wall.

“Actually,” he says. “Do you have anything with Keith Kogane in it?”

She squints, then cracks a sly grin.

“Sure, I do. You looking for recent? Or any?”

“Just show me all of it. I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it.”

She laughs, then saunters over to her computer to look through the catalog. As she taps away, Lance looked through his texts from the morning again, just to make sure.

From Unknown. _For your information, Laith is clearly the superior ship name. If we’re going to be in the papers, these are my terms and conditions._

From Unknown. _It’s Keith, BTW. Kolivan gave me your number._

From Lance. _Look he uses an acronym! Can I tweet about this too?_

From Lance. _And how do I know if this is the real keith? Send me as selfie to prove it_

From Unknown. _[Attached image.]_

Lance bites his lip seeing that selfie again. Keith clearly wasn’t ready for it, still in bed with the sheets pulled up to his chest. His hair fans out on the pillow, and his mouth pulls in a tight frown. In the corner of the image is a dog’s black ear.

From Lance. _WAIT. SHOW ME UR DOG_

From Keith. _[Attached image. A massive ball of barely distinguishable black fur stretched out on a gray duvet.]_

From Lance. _This relationship isn’t going to work if I don’t get one pic with ur beautiful dog!! Think of the fans!_

From Keith. _Mm. I’ll think about it._

From Lance. _I’m fake breaking up with u_

From Keith. _I’ll fake accept it. Don’t think I won’t._

The shop lady interrupts his scrolling, waving a printed list in her hand.

“Here’s all we have on Keith Kogane,” she says as she begins to scan the shelves for the copies. “What would you like?”

“Why don’t we start with…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so incredibly much for reading. I really appreciate comments and kudos, and if you want to, share [this post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/181748181616/love-song-in-c-minor-chapter-two) on my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/)! Also, come by and say hi! Happy New Year!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @lanceymcclain – t-minus 7 days until our single the hunted is out! Also t-minus one month until the next single… and t-minus two months until the album?! :D  
> The replies are all about Keith. All of them. Every single one. When Lance Googles his name, Keith’s comes up. When Lance Googles Keith’s name, Lance comes up. As he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, a text comes through from—guess who?—Keith.  
> From Keith. _I’m a traitor, huh?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo and behold, it hasn't been six months! ... It has been two, though. My next goal is to get the fourth chapter out in under a month. If you follow me on other platforms, though, you know my keyboard is broken. Shout out to everyone who's said they find my abhorrent typing endearing. It's not going to be an issue in uploading chapter four, but it is a bit of an explanation in why this chapter has taken a little longer than intended... typing is slow. 
> 
> This baby is 11.6k words. Thank you to Ly for always being so encouraging, and Colleen and the Happychat for the same. More thanks to Zen, too <3\. I hope you enjoy my celebrity baby boys in the third installment of Max Self-Inserts As @hunksorangeheadband !

“Welcome to the show, Lance! How are you doing this morning?” Mickey—Ricky?—asks in that jovial presenter voice.

“I could be better,” Lance rasps, rolling over in his bed and pulling the sheets up to his chin. “It’s kind of almost five a.m. over here, so the sun’s not out. Other than that, I’m good.”

“Oh, you’re in Los Angeles, right! Thanks for joining us all the way over here in New York City.”

“Sure thing, dude.”

“So, Lance. Today on my radio show we wanted to play a little game called 20 Questions.”

“If you wanna ask me if I’m single, you don’t have to go the roundabout way,” Lance says, which earns a laugh from Mickey. It was Mickey, wasn’t it?

“Oh, I’m gonna ask you. But first, we asked Voltron fans what questions they wanted to ask you. So, we start with a question from a fan on Twitter. Then, you ask _me_ a question, and I’ll tweet it out to the fans and read some of their answers to you. Sound good?”

“Sounds like a lot of brain power for five AM.”

“Chug that Red Bull now, Lance. First question, and this one comes from user Allurance: what’s the best place you’ve visited on tour?”

“Oh, easy. When we were in Florida last year, we got to take a day off and visit the Kennedy Space Center. I guess that’s a bit of a cop out since it’s not an actual tour location, but that’s my answer.”

“Oh, space, huh. I could’ve guessed you were going to say that. Alright. What do you want to ask your fans?”

“What’s your favorite color?” Lance asks easily. “Don’t pick blue.”

“Ha! Okay, we’ll see those answers in a second. Question two, from Instagram user CutieLance: where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Still in the band and still playing kickass music, but with a dog. I really want a dog. Here’s a question for the fans: what kind of dog should I get?”

“Did someone out there inspire you for dogs?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah, I guess,” Lance says.

“So far, all of your fans are saying blue.”

“They’re traitors! Come on, guys. You’re just picking blue because I like it!”

“Haha. Alright, third question for you. This one is from Twitter user AliceLovesPidge—”

“Aw, so do I.”

“She asks: so, is it Klance or Laith?”

Lance sucks in a sharp breath. There it is, out in the open. First time talking about it on air, for all the world to hear. He chooses his words carefully.

“Keith can talk all the smack he wants, but Klance is clearly the superior one,” he says. “Hunk says it packs more punch. Laith is a little flitty, you know? But _Klance._ Klance is memorable. Plus, it has my full name in it.”

“Wow, that’s some deep analysis. Did you think about this?’

“Oh, yeah. We had some very intense discussions. It might be the very thing that drives us apart from each other.”

“Are you admitting to something here?”

“Am I? Here’s another question for the fans: favorite Voltron song?”

“Everyone on my feed is telling you to get a lab husky mix. That’s… very specific.”

Lance can’t help but cackle into the receiver. Damn, they really know how to do their research.

“Tell them I’ll consider it. They’re probably saying it because Keith owns one. He hasn’t let me meet him yet, though, so a lab husky mix _might_ be off the table. He’s also a traitor.”

“Oh! Wow, no wonder. One more question from Twitter user Voltrawn, spelled like yawn: soo, is there anyone special in your life?”

Holy shit. Mickey does not mess around with getting answers. But Sendak instructed him to keep it vague, at least for now. Make them want confirmation before you give it to them.

“Maybe…” Lance bites his lip and turns over, away from the pitch dark window. “Maybe not. We’ll see. What are their favorite songs?”

“There’s too many to even name some. Everyone likes a little bit of everything off _The Rise of Voltron_. That’s the sign of a good album.”

“Shucks! As Hunk would say. Then they’re _really_ going to love the new one.”

“Right! Voltron’s coming out with a new album, _The Return of Voltron_ , set to be released in a little under two months. Can you give us a little taste, Lancey Lance?”

“I can’t, not right now! But I can tell you it’ll be flipping awesome. We’ve put way more work into this one than the last, if that’s anything to go by.”

“I, for one, can’t wait. Who knows, maybe by then you’ll have the lab husky mix of your dreams.”

“Again, we’ll see!”

“Alright. Thanks for joining us today at this awful hour, Lance McClain, and thanks for answering some fan questions.”

“I always love talking to the fans. Thanks for having me,” he says.

“Will you join us soon with your full band?”

“If our team wants it, then we’ll be there.”

“I’m waiting for the e-mail. Have a good nap now, Lance!”

“Trust me,” he says. “I’m knocking out as soon as I hang up.”

Mickey says goodbye, and Lance lets the phone fall into the bedspread. Instantly, Coran’s messages blow it up. Probably smiley faces. Maybe pictures of lab husky puppies. He doesn’t check.

He stares blankly at the ceiling, tracing the patterns in the plaster and fiddling with a loose thread in the bedspread. Despite the pull behind his eyelids, nerves wrack his chest. That’s another thing he’s lying about. Going to sleep.

 

. . .

 

@laceylance – I CAN’T STOP SHAKING I JUST MET LANCE AT THE PARK. HE WAS JUST WALKING AND I SAW HIM AND NOW I’M CRYING

@lovelyallura — @laceylance what was lance mcclain doing in a park??? When was the last time that man went outside?

@laceylance — @lovelyallura I DON’T KNOW BUT KEITH KOGANE WAS WITH HIM. HOLD ON I’M POSTING A SELFIE

@laceylance — .@lanceymcclain – thank u so much for taking a selfie with me!!! And thanks @Keith_Kogane ur awesome!! _[Attached Image]_

@lanceylance — @laceylance first of all great username. second of all why didn’t they take the dog!!!

Keith was right, as always. The selfie blows up, blanketed across Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram… lighting the fuse on interactions that fueled Sendak’s decision to push up the first single release.

So that’s why Lance sits at his kitchen counter with Hunk a few hours after Mickey’s breakfast show, scrolling through his phone and ignoring several texts from Veronica. He still owes her that selfie—and an explanation.

“Why am I not this popular on my own?” Lance grumbles, absently pushing around the last few bites of Hunk’s eggy concoction around on his plate.

“I think it’s more of a testament to how popular you already are,” Hunk says. “Coran says he’s on the way with the car. Do you wanna go down and wake up Pidge, or should I?”

Lance gives Hunk his best puppy dog eyes, and Hunk shakes his head and slides off the bar stool.

“Five minutes, Lance. Five minutes!”

Hunk shuts the door behind him, and Lance sprints to the couch to grab his laptop.

On his Twitter, he’s already tweeted about the new single release date.

@lanceymcclain – t-minus 7 days until our single the hunted is out! Also t-minus one month until the next single… and t-minus two months until the album?! :D

The replies are all about Keith. All of them. Every single one. When Lance Googles his name, Keith’s comes up. When Lance Googles Keith’s name, Lance comes up. As he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, a text comes through from—guess who?—Keith.

From Keith. _I’m a traitor, huh?_

From Lance. _Well the fans thought it was cute!!!_

He looks up and finds practically hundreds more replies in the space it took to text Keith.

From Lance. _I’m still sorry this got pushed forward_

From Keith. _It’s fine. Some changes happened with LOD too so it’s good. Do the managers still want us to do that thing on Saturday?_

From Lance. _No that’s cancelled now too busy. Was wondering though if u wanted to drop by the studio today? We’re doing a last listen to the final mix of the album. I figure u might want to hear ur fake boyfriend’s song before it comes out._

From Lance. _Plus it’ll work with Sendak’s master plan… and we’ll pick u up. Coran won’t mind_

Lance refuses to mention that he can just send over the MP3’s and Keith can listen to them in the comforting privacy of his own home. Nope. That totally wouldn’t be easier than this. He sucks in a breath waiting for Keith’s response.

From Keith. _Fine. I’m just finishing breakfast with Rolo. We’re at the IHOP close to the Galra Records building anyway._

Rolo? Right, Rolo. Keith’s costar in _Love on Daibazaal_. Of course, they’re friends. Lance vaguely remembers him from a few movies and shows. He’s pretty sure they’ve never met, but Rolo’s long nose and droopy eyes are pretty memorable.

Hunk throws open the apartment door and barges in with a screaming Pidge on his back. Allura comes in, too, leaning against the door frame with crossed arms and a smirk.

“It was for your own good, Pidge,” she yells, fighting to be heard over Pidge’s racket. “You can’t be getting sick this week!”

“I’m not sick! I’m naturally sniffly!” she retorts as she beats on Hunk’s back. Hunk dutifully drops her on the couch next to Lance, where she promptly buries her face in her arms before peeking out to give Lance a death glare.

“You’re sick?!” Lance leaps back onto the other side of the couch.

“No—” A cough cuts her off, and she throws him the middle finger. “What’s that on your laptop? Is that you and Keith, sitting in a tree? K-I-S-S-I-N-G?”

Lance’s face burns and he slams the laptop shut, pushing it halfway across the coffee table before flopping back onto the couch.

“Don’t tease him, Pidge,” Allura warns. Pidge sticks out her tongue.

Another text comes through, lighting up Lance’s phone screen. He snatches it before Pidge’s grubby hands get anywhere close.

From Keith. _One more condition: I’ll listen to your music if you come to the gym with me and let me show you how much work it is to be this good in romance. I’ll even let you post it on Snapchat._

It’s official: Keith’s sole goal is to kill Lance. Metaphorically and physically kill him.

He shoves the phone deep into his pocket and yanks Pidge off the couch with him, despite her sniffy squawking.

“We’re making a detour on the way to the studio,” he announces. “Keith’s coming with us.”

“Ooh, is that what Coran wanted?” Pidge asks, poking him in the side.

Lance doesn’t dignify her with an answer. Instead, he drops her back onto the floor, throws _her_ the middle finger and sticks _his_ tongue out, grabs his jacket off the back of the couch, and backs away to the door.

They pile into the car, this time a black Range Rover. Next year, when Lance’s mom trusts him enough to live in an actual house on his own, this is the car he’ll buy. Right now, he’s got a boring Toyota sitting in the complex parking lot, right next to Hunk’s shittier hunk of metal he calls “my baby, Lance, my one and only.”

While Lance stretches out in the middle row, the other three squish onto the back bench, Pidge between Allura and Hunk. Lance twists in his seat and gestures toward the empty one, all ready for an un-squished friend.

“No one wants to sit next to me?” he asks, turning a powerful pout onto his friends.

“We’re leaving you a seat for Keeiith, your fake boyfriend,” Pidge says, waggling her eyebrows.

Coran doesn’t even question when Lance taps on the shoulder of the driver and asks very kindly to make a pitstop at the IHOP.

When the SUV dutifully pulls up to the curb outside the restaurant, Lance leans over and opens the door. A figure shrouded in black unfolds itself from a bench outside and climbs into the car.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters as he unwinds a scarf from his neck and frees his hair from an equally black beanie.

“You look like you went on a Hot Topic shopping spree,” Lance returns in kind. Honestly? Lance has never wanted to cuddle a Hot Topic before, but there’s a first for everything. “No aviators today?”

“The Hot Topic look is enough to ward off anyone,” he says. He glances away from Lance, finally noticing the three other band members huddled in the back seat. “Um, hi.”

“Hi, Keith!” Allura greets brightly, leaning over Pidge and sticking out her hand for a shake. She turns on her signature million-watt smile, showing off each whitened tooth with her signature poise. Lance recognizes it from meet-and-greets. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

Keith shakes it awkwardly.

“I love your movies, dude.” Hunk’s smile is a little less intense, but it melts the hearts of everyone he meets. “ _My Prom Date the Vampire_? Instant classic.”

Keith huffs a little laugh and shakes his head, too. Lance is a little endeared by this first meeting of his fake boyfriend and his very real band.

“Yeah, I try not to remember that one,” he says, grimacing a little. “It’s Hunk, right? And Allura and Pidge?”

“That’s right! I hope Lance has told you about all my best qualities.” Pidge tilts her chin and smiles slightly, this devious little expression that gets her all sorts of attention.

Keith raises an eyebrow at Lance and Lance shakes his head minutely.

“Yeah. He spoke very highly of you all.”

“He better!” Pidge pokes Lance’s thigh with a dirty sneaker through the break in the two rows. “If Lance is fake-dating anyone, they need to know I’m the real star if this band, not Lance.”

“It’s not my fault the fans love my face, Pidge,” Lance shrugs. “If you’re the real star, why do I have the most Twitter followers?”

“So shallow,” Allura tuts. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this, Keith.”

But Keith, bless him, just grins crookedly and leans back in his seat folding hi arms over his chest. His posture relaxes a little from his first entrance and he casts his eyes to the floor of the car with an air of relief. It relieves something in Lance’s chest, too. He can’t remember why exactly he was worried about how everyone would get along.

“Anyway,” Pidge interrupts. “Keith has the same number of followers as you and he tweets once a month. Who’s the real winner here?”

“Still me!” Lance says.

But maybe Lance can step down from first place, if only for the chuckle that bursts from Keith.

“Still him. Lance replying to me has gotten me more than a few over the last two weeks,” he says.

Lance crosses his arms smugly. Need he say more?

The car rolls to a stop near the front entrance of the studio, a low black brick building squished between taller ones on a busy Los Angeles street. A purple sign with loopy script hangs over the top: Studio Quintessence.

“Sorry, lads. It looks like we have company,” Coran says as he peers out the front window. Down the street, a lens hangs out of another parked car.

Paparazzi. Lance forgot about the paparazzi.

Well. If they want the shot, they’re gonna get the shot.

“Do we have to—” Keith begins to ask, glancing apprehensively from the lens to the band in the back seat.

“Yes! Good idea, Keith!” Coran cries as he climbs out of the passenger side, tapping away at his phone.

Keith sighs and opens the car door, stepping with an air of let’s-get-this-over-with onto the sidewalk with his heavy boots. Lance climbs out after him. Before his shoes hit the ground, Keith’s hand reaches for his. He threads their fingers together, pointedly ignoring the camera clicking away in the background. Lance tries to do the same and miserably fails. Usually, it’s relatively easy to tune the paparazzi out. Today, they’re getting an eyeful of the new sensation: Keith and Lance.

“How do they know if you’re in the studio?” Keith mutters as they wait for the rest of the band to pile out. Pidge jumps from the edge of the car onto Hunk’s back.

“Lead the way!” she yells. Hunk laughs, hikes her up with his arms, and starts down the sidewalk towards the entrance.

“Lotor and Nyma also use this studio for their music,” Allura explains. “It’s quite popular for Galra Records.”

Keith nods thoughtfully, letting Lance tug him along. In a second, they’re out of the street and into the warmth of the foyer of Studio Quintessence, the camera behind them. Before them, though, is the actual studio. The heart of Voltron and all other musicians. Where the magic _actually_ happens.

“Voltron! Just on time,” a broad, buff man leaning against the front desk says. He pushes himself off the desk and holds out a hand for the customary firm handshakes.

Lance tenses, squeezing Keith’s hand and dropping it completely. The reassuring comfort dissipates instantly, leaving behind only the wariness of how it looks that Keith Kogane is with them in the studio.

“Thace!” Allura greets, accepting a firm handshake. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“You, too. We’re going to be in Studio B’s control room,” he says. All protein, no fat. The only indication that he has a soul is a double take at Keith, shifting awkwardly besides Lance. “Keith Kogane. Kolivan’s a good friend of mine.”

“Cool,” Keith says.

Thace leads them down the corridor to Studio B. Keith gasps audibly when he shuffles inside. He gazes in wonder at the panels of controls, enormous speakers, and racks of equipment Lance himself barely knows. The control room is familiar to him, though. He’s spent hours hunched over the panels, ordering the others around in the recording booth or being ordered himself by the producers and Galra head honchos.

Allura, Hunk, and Pidge immediately take the big couch at the back, leaving just enough room for one more, two if they squeezed.

“Is this where you guys record?” Keith asks, his voice still mystified. His eyes trail over the alien-looking diffusers lining the wall behind the couch, then around to the blank window overlooking the recording booth.

“This is where the magic happens, baby,” Lance says with a wink—because, duh, he’s gonna use that line out loud—and plops down in the last spot.

“Lance, be courteous to Keith,” Allura chastises. “Let him sit down.”

Lance sticks out his tongue. He looks around for any more empty seats, but Coran’s taken the last swivel chair, pulled up beside Thace and the other engineer.

He is _not_ sitting on the arm of the couch for the entire fifty-minute album. Ugh. Whatever. Reluctantly, he scoots as far as he can into Pidge’s bony thighs and pats the inch of space between him and the armrest.

Keith takes one glance at the open space and says, “No.”

“You’re gonna stand?” Lance scoffs. “Suit yourself.”

Keith considers his other options, then rolls his eyes and wedges himself into Lance’s side. Wait, shit. This is not the intention. Pidge snickers, to which Lance elbows her sharply.

“Asshole!” she hisses.

“Blackmail,” he hisses back.

“Okay, everyone!” Coran says, clapping as he whirled around on the swivel chair. “No more bickering. Attention to Thace, please.”

“What’s on the menu today, Thace?” Lance asks.

Thace nods at the other engineer, who continues setting up the speakers.

“This is just a run through of all the tracks in order,” he says. “Sendak recommended that we take one last look at the track listing.”

“Didn’t we solidify that last month?” Allura inquires, eyebrows furrowed.

“You know Sendak,” Lance says snidely. “Never satisfied with anything we want.”

“Lance,” Coran warns.

“Backing off! Don’t get your mustache in a twist.”

Thace raises an eyebrow and turns to the controller. The engineer taps something quickly and adjusts a few more knobs.

“Is it always this complicated?” Keith asks, his voice alarmingly close to Lance’s ear.

“Hell yeah,” Lance replies. “Hunk and I have a third bedroom for recording equipment at our apartment, but this place is next level. I like it here, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s… comfortable. I know what I’m doing here.”

When Lance turns his head, Keith’s already looking at him, this soft, curious expression on his face. Lance’s breath catches in his throat, and he trains his eyes on Thace instead.

“I would think that you’d like the stage better. Since you’re so dramatic and all.”

“Haha, Mr. Romance. I can like both! It’s not all about the glory of fame, you know.”

“Sure,” Keith snorts.

Thace clears his throat and they snap to attention.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Play on, good sir,” Coran says, saluting with the pen in his hand.

The first track, “Rebirth”, begins to play through the speakers, a mixture of steadily increasing drums and Lance’s acoustic.

“One more thing,” Lance whispers, low enough for only Keith to hear. “Be honest. How many of our songs have you listened to before?”

Keith thinks for a moment, the corner of his mouth quirking in a way Lance is quickly learning can never mean a good, wholesome response.

“’Crystal Venom’ is a Voltron song, right?”

Yep. There it is.

“God, fuck you. And to think I was tempted to binge your whole repertoire.”

They lapse into silence as the album plays on, only a few comments here or there about a good job well done by Thace or whether the track list holds up so far. Halfway through the third song, Lance’s arm begins to get pins and needles where it’s stuck between his side and Keith’s stupidly heavy body. He wriggles it out, and, with nowhere else go to, rearranges it over Keith’s shoulder. Keith freezes for a moment, then glances at Thace and the engineer and relaxes into the touch.

Before “The Hunted” comes on, Coran suggests that a little video of the song might do to hype up fans. Pidge takes the job, pulling her phone from her pocket and opening it to Snapchat. In the middle of the chorus, she begins recording Allura’s focused expression, her lead guitar wailing in the background right along with Lance’s vocals. Hunk waves into the camera, and Pidge pans around to capture Lance’s reaction.

Which, of course, means capturing Keith next to him, nestled into Lance’s side. He swears he sees Coran grin mischievously out of the corner of his eye.

She posts it to Snapchat. The traitor.

“What do you think of the single, Keith, my boy?” Coran asks.

“It’s good,” Keith says. His foot taps along to the beat. “I don’t know enough about music or anything, sorry. I, uh, really like the lyrics.”

“Do you really?” Lance asks.

“Yeah. You know, the message. Even if you make a big mistake, you can fix it.”

“It’s more… like there are people to help you fix it. Like a team. Like these guys.” He gestures to the rest of the couch.

Keith nods slowly, still keeping time.

“Did you write it?”

“Lance writes most of our lyrics,” Hunk replies. “He’s modest about it, but his lyrics are what got us in this recording studio in the first place.”

“Shucks, Hunk,” Lance says, batting the air with the hand not currently inches away from Keith’s shoulder. “We’re a team, buddy. Your golden bass is the beat of my heart.”

“Bro.” Hunk wipes away a fake tear.

Coran snaps for their attention again.

When the next song blares through the speakers, Lance loses himself in the same mental argument he gets into whenever he listens. Thace mixed it one way, which Lance respects... but are the backing vocals too loud? They seem a little too loud. He’s so focused on remembering the levels he almost misses Keith laying his head on Lance’s shoulder.

Key word: almost. But he does. And then he kind of feels bad for dragging him to the studio when he clearly doesn’t want to be awake.

“You better write a badass song about our fake breakup when this is over,” Keith mumbles, half into the crook of Lance’s neck. “I’m not walking away from this relationship without a dedicated song on the third Voltron album.”

“I’m already waxing poetic about your tragic lack of deodorant and greasy hair.”

Keith laughs lowly, and it’s all Lance can do to keep his fingers out of the aforementioned greasy hair.

“I’ll take it,” he says. “My brand deal with Dove makes you a liar, anyway.”

At the end of the listening session, they have to change the order of the last three songs. The idea tastes bitter, since Lance thought it would be a change from their last album to end on a quieter note. Whatever. He barely cares, anyway. Keith says that the new track list still sounds good, and he’ll take it.

 

. . .

 

The week leading up to the release of “The Hunted” almost kills Lance—not literally, but his brain feels like liquified jelly leaking out of his ears by the time release night comes around. Meetings, interviews, a music video shoot, and, on top of it all, Pidge got fucking sick.

Ten minutes. No biggie. Only the first single off their second album, about to be released into the wild to hundreds of thousands of fans waiting up until midnight to hear it.

He’s pacing around his and Hunk’s living room, scrolling frantically through his Twitter feed. They zoom past too fast for him to read, but what if he doesn’t want to read them?

“You need to stop moving before I make you stop,” Pidge whines from her place curled up on the corner of the couch.

“Pidge! Have some fucking sympathy!” Lance retorts, not looking up from his phone to flip her the bird.

She throws a used tissue at his face and misses by a longshot, the gross wad hurled into the window blinds instead.

“Curse my short arms,” she grunts, and burrows herself further into the cushions Lance will most definitely be throwing into the laundry machine.

“Five minutes,” Hunk says. “Oh, man. What if they don’t like it? What if _I_ don’t like it, and then we have to play it at every concert we ever do ever? What if someone sent the wrong MP3 and it’s the demo on Lance’s phone where I cursed? What if—”

“Hunk, I need you to take a deep breath.” Allura cups his cheeks in her hands. He inhales loudly, then exhales a high-pitched whine. She looks him dead in the eyes and says, “If they hate it, we never speak of this again. We take a blood pact of silence.”

“Allura!” Lance gasps. “I’m in.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Pidge says. “You fools can do whatever you want, but I will be confident in our abilities. It’s what you always preach, Lance! Exude confidence, become confidence. Exude health… become health.”

“Two minutes!”

“Exuding anxiety to the max,” Lance all but yells.

The seconds count down. On his Twitter feed, the fans go ballistic. There’s hashtag campaigns, offers to buy downloads for other fans, others just screaming into the void. Every so often (okay, more than that) Keith’s name pops up in a tweet, too.

“Exuding confidence!” Pidge yells. She has her phone out, too, almost definitely taking a Snapchat of her tissue-stuffed nose and posting it with the caption “THE HUNTED OUT NOW!!!! PAY FOR MY COLD MEDICINE!”

Midnight. The single drops. Spotify, iTunes, the lyric video on Youtube, everything.

With shaky hands, Lance opens his own Snapchat and begins recording.

“’The Hunted’ is out!” he whoops into the camera while circling in place in the middle of the living room. Allura and Hunk join in, shouting every platform on which the song is available, while Pidge forces a lackluster hurrah. “We really worked hard on this one, so go listen and tweet us what you think! It’s been _such_ a long time coming. We’re so proud, and we hope that you’re proud of it, too!”

Send Snapchat. Open Twitter. It’s almost performative, except for the part where Lance might be going insane. Like, he trembles so hard he can barely hold the fucking phone.

@lanceymcclain – go grab the hunted out now!! We worked so hard on this song. Every note was created with u guys in mind! Buy on itunes, stream on spotify, or listen on youtube!!!

@hunksorangeheadband – @lanceymclain AAAAAHHHH IT SOUNDS SO GOOD!! OH MY GOD LANCE U SOUND LIKE AN ANGEL I LOVE IT SO MUCH

@alicelovespidge THOSE DRUMS. THAT GUITAR. THE BASS? LANCE’S FREAKING VOICE. IT’S EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED

@lanceylance – this is… SO different from the last album?! Like GOOD but DIFFERENT. I was not expecting this

@kuhlance – I’m new to the Voltron fandom but WOW THIS IS SO EXCITING. How come I never listened to this band before like last week??

@hunksorangeheadband – @kuhlance WELCOME! Enjoy ur stay bc ur never leaving and buy the hunted on itunes!!

The replies, the congratulations, and the overwhelming support roll in by the thousands. Sometimes, Lance forgets just what a phenomenon Voltron is. Other times, like right now, it threatens to pull him under. But most tweets coming across his phone screen have been blindingly positive, and he’ll take that for anything.

“I can’t believe it,” Lance mutters. “They like it. They actually like it!”

“Hurray!” Pidge cheers. “No blood pact!”

“Oh, Pidge, you know you would’ve done it with us,” Allura says. Pidge wrinkles her nose. Allura’s right, though. Pidge would never pass up the opportunity.

“And that’s what makes this band a family!” Hunk cries as he gathers Allura in an enormous hug. “Blood pacts and our legally binding contracts!”

Lance coos and dives into the hug, wrapping his arms around Hunk and Allura’s shoulders.

“Pidge, get in here, you snot ball!” he says, words muffled by Hunk’s hair.

Pidge rolls her eyes as hard as she can manage and pulls the tissues out of her nose.

“I’m gonna get you so sick.”

“Don’t care! Snot pact!”

Even Allura grins at that, and Pidge burrows her way between Hunk and Lance to wedge into the middle of the hug.

“I just wanna say,” Hunk says, now that he’s got his whole band in his arms. “That I’m really proud of us. Sometimes things are shitty, but right now we’re all on my couch, celebrating releasing a freaking single weeks after we won a Grammy.”

“Buddy!” Lance tightens his grip. “It’s all worth it! All of it, just for this moment. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Allura blinks back tears; Lance can feel it on his shoulder. Aw, man. When Allura gets emotional, it’s game over.

“I love you all,” she says, her words watery. “I’m so glad I walked into your horrible band rehearsal in high school. I could have never imagined we would be here today.”

They all _aww_ , except for Pidge, who wretches.

“This is too emotional!” she whines, though she buries her face into Lance’s chest. “The album’s not even released yet!”

“We love you, too, Pidge,” Lance says. He releases his arm from Hunk and pats her head. “One day, you’ll be able to express emotion like a normal human being. On that day, we’ll be waiting with a blood pact.”

“Back to blood pacts. Finally, a subject I can understand.”

 

. . .

 

“Hey… Lance. Lance, wake up,” a soft voice murmurs. Huh. They haven’t done a social media report in a while, not since Keith’s been there to quell it… but that’s not Pidge’s voice.

“Hunky?” Lance mumbles back, rolling over from his stomach to his side. When he cracks his eyes open, he sees Hunk kneeling by the bed, a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other. “’m not hungover.”

As he says it, though, the pounding headache makes itself known in his mind—as does the snot, the hot cheeks, and the sticky pajamas clinging to his body.

“You developed a little fever overnight. Woke me up two hours ago when you tried to go to te bathroom, but I bet you don’t remember that,” Hunk says. “Sorry, man.”

“What? No, we have that interview with—with _Roar_. I’m gonna get up—”

“Nuh uh,” Hunk cuts him off. He sets the glass and pills on his nightstand and gently pushes Lance back into the bed. “I’ve already called Coran. You’re off the hook for today, but the rest of us still have to go. I’ve brought you water and Tylenol for the headache you undoubtedly have. There’s still some chicken noodle soup in the fridge, so you can heat it up while we’re gone.”

“Hunk?” Lance drawls. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know, buddy,” Hunk says with a signature warm smile. Good Hunk. He’s always such a good, kind Hunk. “Stay hydrated. We have to go, but you go back to sleep, okay?”

“Will do.” Lance’s eyelids are already fluttering closed as it is. “Tell the gorgeous people at _Roar_ Lancey Lance loves them.”

“I will. Sleep tight.”

Lance makes a sound that might be a coherent response, and Hunk shuts the door gently behind him. Silence. Lance takes one look through the curtains to gauge the time—the ass crack of dawn, by the way—and sinks back into fitful slumber.

 

. . .

 

When Lance wakes up next, he blearily grabs the water and chugs it all in one go before slamming the cup back on the nightstand. He blinks against the headache and sour taste in his mouth. Fuck. He attempts to push himself up by the elbows, only to realize his limbs might actually be un-set gelatin, and falls against the sheets again.

Lance groans when he sees the two tiny white Tylenol pills next to an empty glass of water. Fuck again. He’ll just have to make the trip to the kitchen to get some more. First, though, the bathroom is a little more pressing.

Inch by inch, Lance sits up, tests his stability, and begins walking towards the door. Peeing is weird; he leans his head against the wall to concentrate on not making a mess. By the time he gets back to the bedroom for the glass, he’s too exhausted to do anything other than crawl right back under the covers.

On second thought, he gropes around for his phone, hidden somewhere under the covers.

There’s still a few lingering notifications from other celebrities and friends for “The Hunted” which make Lance crack a smile. He sifts through them, then creates a new tweet.

@lanceymcclain – pidge got me sick!!! If she gave me the avian flu, I swear…

Hundreds of fans send him sad faces and “get well soon” tweets. A few tweet their threats to Pidge, which makes Lance laugh hoarsely. He’s about to put the phone down and accept his sleepy fate when a notification pops up.

@Keith_Kogane — @lanceymcclain If Pidge gave you the avian flu, our date is cancelled.

Oh, shit, right. One of his duties for today was a conspicuous date with Keith. Lance’s heart flutters as he frantically—well, as frantic as a man on the brink of death can be—types out a text.

From Lance. _I’m sorry I think it really is cancelled ): I can barely get out of bed much less dress up_

From Keith. _That’s okay. Coran just called Kolivan with the news._

From Keith. _Staying hydrated?_

Curse everyone who wants Lance to stay hydrated.

From Lance. _Hunk gave me water but I don’t wanna get up to get more. Contemplating death instead honestly_

From Keith. _Is no one there to get water for you?_

From Lance. _No everyone’s at work. No friends to text either. I’ll make do, DW_

The next reply takes a few minutes. Lance debates shoving the phone back under the covers and taking death seriously when it finally pings.

From Keith. _What’s your address?_

His address? No, he can’t be serious.

From Lance. _R u gonna sell it on the internet?_

From Keith. _I’m being serious. Address_.

From Lance. _[Address sent.]_

From Lance. _If ur doing what I think ur doing I still have to get up to buzz u in_

From Keith. _Buzz me in then._

Lance groans loudly into the pillow. No way. Is he fake dating an angel in disguise? There’s no way Keith is being serious.

Still, he drags himself out of bed again, wrapping the duvet around his shoulders like a little avian flu cocoon. He stumbles through the corridor and lands face-down on the couch, phone in hand.

Thirty minutes of pithy sleep later, a screeching buzz erupts from the entrance. With a little effort, Lance makes his way to the door.

“The secret password?” he requests when he pushes the button.

“ _The secret password is let me the fuck in before you die_ ,” Keith’s staticky voice replies.

Lance makes a _tsk_ sound, coughs, and buzzes him in.

When a knock echoes through the apartment, Lance cracks open the door to reveal Keith Kogane on the other side, a plastic bag in one hand and the other poised where the door just was.

Oh, God, he’s even beautiful when Lance is half delirious. That is _so_ unfair.

“Are you going to let me in?” he asks, cocking his head.

“Shit, yeah,” Lance mumbles, belatedly realizing he’s still swaddled in his duvet. He widens the door and steps aside for Keith. “I couldn’t do my full skin care routine last night, so I apologize for any pain in your eyes.”

Keith rolls his eyes and takes a moment to sink in the scenery of Casa de McClain-Garrett. He wanders to the kitchen, sets the plastic bag down on the breakfast bar, and rummages through.

“You have a nice place,” he says as he pulls a bottle out of the bag. “If you fall asleep again I’m sneaking into that third bedroom.”

“Oh, no, Keith. You’re not holding what I think you’re holding.” Lance backs away, his calves hitting the arm of the couch. Keith turns around and holds out a bottle. “No!”

“You’re a singer, Lance,” Keith reasons, stepping forward. “You need to get better. I can hear it in your voice.”

“I’ll cancel my lesson tomorrow! I’ll never sing again! Even Hunk can’t make me drink that nasty stuff!”

“Always so dramatic,” he tuts, closing the space until he’s a foot away from Lance, the offending bottle between them. “Drink this, then I’ll get you some water and you can get your beauty rest.”

“Keith, don’t you dare,” Lance whimpers. But it’s a losing battle; he can already tell. The _Love on Daibazaal_ stunt work has proven Keith a master of forcing Lance to drink—

Keith smirks and uncaps the bottle before Lance can think any farther. The syrup is sickly green and almost gloppy when he pours it into the cap, and Lance whines and tries to scoot away. He spots his break, but Keith drops the bottle on the coffee table and traps him in his arms in a flash.

“No!” Lance tries one more time. Mid-word, Keith presses the cap to his lips and forces him to drink.

It’s _vile_. It’s torture. Lance can’t believe he’s fake dating the devil.

“I hate you,” he hisses, making faces around the taste the stuff leaves behind. The pressure of Keith’s hand leaves him, and he steps back to cap the bottle. “This is what the breakup song is going to be about.”

“You mean someone actually caring for you?” Keith scoffs as he searches through the cabinets for a glass. “I understand a distress signal when I see one.”

Lance gulps. Keith finds the glasses and takes one out, holding it under the water spout of the fridge.

“You’re weird. This isn’t in the contract,” he attempts again.

Keith sighs as he returns and holds the water out to Lance.

“No,” he says. “Not explicitly. But Sendak said we should be friends, right? And I’m assuming friends care for friends when they’re sick and send a distress signal.”

“Stop saying distress signal,” Lance mumbles. “I just wanted to make a Pidgeon joke.”

So, they’re friends, then. Maybe Lance should have caught on to that by now. He takes the glass and barely takes a second to swallow all the contents. Rubbing his eyes, he shoves it back into Keith’s chest. Now is a good time not to see Keith’s face anymore.

“Sleepy time,” Lance says, and stumbles away.

Keith follows him to his bedroom, stands in the doorway as Lance flops down and pulls the duvet over his chin. Lance catches his eye when he settles.

“I would invite my fake boyfriend into my room,” he says, voice already tinged with more sleep, “but I don’t wanna get you sick, too.”

“Maybe you should. You were my excuse to get away from Rolo today,” Keith hums. Lance raises an eyebrow. He’ll ask for an elaboration when he wakes up.

“Will you still be here?” Lance asks suddenly. “When I wake up?”

Keith pauses, leans against the door frame. Lance notices for the first time that he’s a bit dressed up, all pressed cigarette pants and prim black button up tucked into the waist.

“Do you want me to be?” he asks.

Lance bit his lip and pulled the duvet over is nose. “Someone’s gotta heat up the soup Hunk left in the fridge… Er, only if you want, though.”

“If your apartment has better Wi-Fi than my mine, I’ll stay.”

Some unnamed emotion rises in Lance and he turns away, burrowing his head into the pillows. He hears Keith chuckle, then leave the doorway, his steps echoing on the wood floor.

Sleep is easier this time around.

 

. . .

 

“What’s this?” Keith asks, running his fingers over the slate gray box nailed into the rack under the controller.

“An interface,” Lance says. He’s curled up on the sagging couch in the back of the room, snuggled into the duvet. “That’s where you plug in the microphones and stuff.”

Keith nods and moves on, ghosting over the sliders on the controller.

“Some of those do volume. The knobs at the bottom control the panning,” Lance supplies, before Keith can ask.

“Panning?”

“Like, which speaker the track comes through. If you pan hard left, it only comes through the left speaker, and vice versa.”

Keith nods with satisfaction, and he takes a tentative seat in the chair before the panels. It’s not as a glorious as Studio Quintessence, but it does the job, especially for Hunk. It’s better than the cramped space in Hunk’s old bedroom at the apartment the whole band shared when they first got signed. Hunk and Lance specifically asked for a third bedroom for a home studio, complete with Hunk and Pidge’s tinker table at the back of the room and their guitars and basses hung delicately on the wall.

Keith spins the chair forward and picks up a cable attached to the interface. His eyes follow it to the microphone set up in the corner of the room, surrounded by a little foam makeshift vocal booth.

“What do you guys do in here?” he asks.

“Fuck around,” Lance answers honestly. “Record demos. Sometimes if we can’t make it to the rehearsal space we crowd in here. Hunk usually uses it. He likes to mess around with the equipment and settings.” He sighs wistfully. “Our little engineer.”

“So, you write the lyrics, and Hunk does the recording?”

“That’s how we started out.” Lance smiles at the memory. “Picture this: baby Lance, screaming into a microphone in his parent’s garage. When baby Hunk comes in, he yells at Lance for completely breaking the thing. It’s a match made in heaven.”

Keith cracks a smile, facing Lance on the swivel chair.

“Did baby Hunk still wear headbands?” he asks.

“Oh, totally. It’s a phase he never grew out of.” The memory of their first time messing around with music together, when Hunk’s headbands were scraps of his mother’s sewing fabric, filters warmly into Lance’s mind. “Anyway, we recorded our demos ourselves. Hunk’s a genius like that. Then we sent a couple in to Galra Records, and boom. The rest is history.”

“That’s pretty cool, honestly.” ~~~~

“Ooh, what a compliment,” Lance teases. With a waggle of his eyebrows (and a cough), he asks, “What about baby Keith? How did he get so famous?”

Keith gets up from the chair and walks along the far wall, admiring each guitar and bass hung up in turn.

“My adoptive parents were big on having a famous child,” he says with crossed arms, pausing in front of the guitar that Lance’s dad gave him. “Shiro—that’s my brother, the bio kid—refused to do it, so they dropped me in acting classes the minute the papers were signed.”

Lance opens his mouth, but he blanks on how to reply. Well. Shit.

The look must be evident, because Keith shrugs and says, “Don’t feel sorry for me. It worked out. Acting was, like, an escape from everything else. Plus, it meant I could drop out of public school.”

“That’s a plus?” Lance asks incredulously.

“I was actually suspended. Parents thought it was a great opportunity to switch to homeschooling and amp up the auditions.”

“What the _fuck_ did baby Keith get suspended for?!”

A little smirk appears on Keith’s face. He drops his arms and wanders over to the couch.

“I brought a knife to school. A dagger, if you wanna get technical.”

“Holy shit,” Lance breathes as Keith takes a seat next to him, tucking his feet under himself like a cute fucking child. A child who took a dagger to school. “That’s badass.”

Lance lets his head fall back onto the couch and sniffles, and it’s like Keith remembers he’s still sick. With a start, he abandons the conversation, reaches over, and presses a hand to Lance’s forehead. The palm of his hand is a welcome relief, and Lance lets his eyes fall momentarily closed.

“I actually don’t know what’s hot or too hot,” Keith admits. “But I’ll heat up that soup, anyway.”

“You’re a knight in shining armor,” Lance sighs. When Keith withdraws his hand, he misses the cool touch.

“Stay here,” Keith orders.

Lance stays put as Keith unfolds himself and leaves the room. He listens to Keith rummage around in the kitchen with his eyes still shut. Strangely enough, his limbs relax into the couch, even though the duvet is still too hot, but the air is too cold. There’s an electronic beep signaling the microwave. The whir of it is also pretty nice. Maybe it’s just nice knowing Keith is the one in the kitchen. New friend. New Keith friend, making him soup and checking his temperature...

His eyes snap open. Dangerous thoughts. No, bad thoughts. No Keith in the kitchen. Well, yes, Keith is in his kitchen, but—

Keith returns, balancing a spoon and a steaming bowl of Hunk’s delicious soup in his hands. Lance clears his throat and sits up, blinking away his half-conscious thoughts.

“Normally I’d say we’re not allowed to eat in here, but I think we can make an exception,” Lance says as he untangles his arms and makes grabby hands for the soup.

Keith sits down again, back against the arm rest and knees pulled up to his chest, as Lance sips the soup.

Every time Lance is sick, Hunk make soup. And every time Hunk makes Sick Lance Soup, it’s indescribably delicious. Holy shit, is it delicious.

“Don’t tell anyone else,” Lance says between ravenous bites, “but Hunk is my favorite human being in the whole world.”

“Not your fake boyfriend?” Keith asks, a tilt to the corner of his lips.

“Listen. Even if you were my real boyfriend, I’ve known you for three weeks, max. I’ve known Hunk since elementary school _and_ he’s seen me throw up on the side of a road in fuck-all Wyoming. There’s no competition.”

Keith purses his lips and shrugs like he only barely accepts it.

Oh. Wait. Lance recognizes what this is. Is he…?

His derailing train of thought slams to a halt when the front door opens.

“Honey, I’m home!” Hunk yells, then gasps. “Oh, wait, you might be asleep.”

Lance and Keith sort of stare at each other as they listen to Hunk shuffle around in the living room before making his way down the hallway.

“Lance?” he calls again.

Lance tears his eyes away from Keith and replies, “I’m in the studio.”

“Why are you—” Hunk appears in the doorway, a glowing angel of undereye bags and an askew light blue headband. “Oh. Heya, Keith. Is that my soup?”

“Woops,” Lance says sheepishly.

“… I’m gonna let it slide just this once, since you’re sick and all.”

“My fault,” Keith says, holding up his hands. “I brought it to him.”

Hunk narrows his eyes and chooses to let that slide, too.

“Well, now you know the rules. Anyway, I brought home some cupcakes that _Roar_ gave us. You’re welcome to any of them, Keith.”

“Thanks,” Keith says.

“And thanks for the soup, big guy,” Lance says. “I cherish your whole being.”

“You, too.” Hunk smiles warmly and ruffles Lance’s hair. “Shay’s coming over soon to pick me up. Don’t be naked this time.”

“Stipulation received.”

When Lance looks back at Keith, he’s staring with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t worry,” Lance says. “She thinks I’m hot.”

Hunk groans from somewhere in the hallway, and Lance cackles in response.

“I’m concerned that that’s a warning he feels the need to give you,” Keith says.

“Let’s just say you should never come over unannounced.” Lance grins and sets the empty soup bowl down, retracting his arms into the duvet cocoon.

“Alright,” Keith hums. He tilts his chin and says, “Likewise.”

The smile slides off Lance’s face.

It’s Keith’s turn to be smug as he gets up from the couch and takes the soup bowl from the little coffee table.

“I should go. I still have some work to do today,” he says. “You should take more of the cold stuff before you go to bed tonight.”

“The second you leave I’m dumping it down the sink,” Lance grumbles.

Keith pauses and levels Lance with a scowl.

“You’re not my mom,” he pouts.

A thought pops into Lance’s head at the mention of mothers.

“While you’re still here,” he says before Keith can take another step. “Uh... my sister’s a big fan. Did I mention that?”

“You might have,” Keith snorts.

“Her name’s Veronica. Ronnie for short, and Veronica Mariposa when our mom is angry. She wanted a selfie of me and you to prove that I’m not lying to her about... knowing you.”

“Sure, we can do that.”

A breath of relief rushes out of Lance as Keith sits back down next to Lance, close enough to be in frame. He doesn’t touch him, not with Lance being sick and all, but it’s close enough. Lance turns on his smile, Keith his “I’m not frowning, why would I be frowning” expression, and he snaps the photo.

“She’ll be over the fucking moon,” Lance says. “I look terrible and you look great. It’s her dream.”

“I can meet her, if you want,” Keith suggests.

“Nah, she lives in in Florida with the rest of my family. Can you imagine her face if you showed up at her door, though? Oh, man. I’m considering it.”

Keith’s eyebrows shoot up, like he wasn’t expecting Lance to say what he did. He lets it go, apparently, and gets up again.

“And thank you,” Lance continues, just before Keith leaves the room. “For taking care of me, even though I hate that stupid syrup.”

"It's… whatever," Keith says. "I think Kolivan has you scheduled as my plus one for the carpet on Wednesday. Don't be sick by then."

“Because that’s totally in my control.”

“Yup. Bye, Lance.” He waves a little awkwardly, then slips out the door.   

“Bye,” Lance replies, but he’s already gone.

It’s a little while later, after he’s sent Veronica the photo and endured her gushing, that he realizes it’s the first photo of Keith on his camera roll, and maybe he should post it to Twitter. He doesn’t. He’ll just keep this one to himself and his sister.

 

. . .

**_Keith Kogane CAUGHT buying cold medicine after Lance McClain tweets about cold!_ **

_Paps caught_ Love on Daibazaal _star Keith Kogane buying cold medicine at a Santa Monica drug store after Lance McClain tweeted that Voltron bandmate Pidge gave him her sickness! Check out their cute tweets. Turns out that even after Keith teased Lance about their cancelled date, he still cared enough to bring him medicine and cuddle! Is this the confirmation we need that the two are cozying up as boyfriends?_

_[Attached Image: Keith Kogane stepping out of a Santa Monica drug store, holding cold medicine in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.]_

_[Attached Tweet.]_

_[Attached Tweet.]_

 

. . .

 

It's some type of film premiere event. Lance doesn't even catch the name before the Range Rover rolls to a stop at the curb before the carpet. The driver is stoic and silent as usual, but more nerve wracking is stoic and silent Kolivan. Lance is used to having a manager who knows how to lighten the mood, not kill it. Destroy it. Absolutely decimate it just by staring out the window with the same cold expression the entire time.

"Is he always like this?" Lance had whispered in Keith's ears three minutes into the car ride.

"More or less," Keith had whispered back. "You get used to it."

Lance had huffed. It must run in the people with which Keith associates himself.

An attendant for the event steps up and opens the door to the Rover, and Keith steps out first. He holds out a hand for Lance to take. Right. They're playing a game here.

It's hours after the article about the stupid cold medicine hit the internet, and the crowds are in an uproar about their mysterious relationship. Three weeks of dating, and now cold medicine? Oh, and don't forget Keith in the recording studio listening to Voltron's new single, "The Hunted", available to buy and stream now!

Lance gingerly takes Keith's hand and steps out. Hand holding is a requirement for today. Kolivan had not so subtly suggested something more risqué, but Lance's heart just about fell out of his chest at the suggestion.

Not that he hasn’t thought about it. Not that he hasn’t thought about it a _lot_.

Lance is a firm believer that PDA isn't a requirement for a relationship. It's just that he so happens to like PDA. He bites his lip against memories of the one televised event to which he took Plaxum, back when Voltron was just a blip on everyone's radar and no one cared about Lance McClain's love life. He kissed her on the cheek that night and kept an arm around her waist the whole way through. She despised it.

He’s not going to think about it. It’s not in the contract... so they won’t do it.

"Is fun and flirty out tonight?" Keith asks, tightening his hand around Lance's limp one.

Keith's fun and flirty certainly is. Lance let his eyes drift down to his lips for a millisecond before snapping up to his eyes, shining with mirth.

"Let's see," Lance says, a surprise to even himself. Keith raises an eyebrow. Maybe it's the fact that Keith brought him soup and witnessed him half-dead in an avian flu cocoon. Yeah, that’s probably it.

Kolivan nudges them along, and they stride away from the car and onto the sickly neon blue stretch of carpet. Before Lance knows it, he's facing a wall of cameras and fans not unlike the one at the Grammy's a few weeks earlier.

The cameras and reporters explode into jeers and lightning flashes as Keith and Lance take their position before them. The fans—of this movie or of the stars, Lance can’t tell—scream, too, calling for their names. Lance doesn't notice he's nervous until Keith releases his hand and wraps his arm around Lance's waist again.

Lance and Keith, Hollywood's new darling couple.

"Keith Kogane! Lance McClain!" the paps cry, shoving heavy cameras and microphones in their direction. Stars a little way ahead of them—Lance recognizes one of them as Emma fucking Stone—blink at the commotion.

"Are you two an item?"

"Lance, are you Keith's plus one?!"

"Look over here! Look over here!"

Keith quips a comment to someone. Lance barely catches it before Kolivan pushes them along, farther down the walk suddenly looming miles long before them. Lance pulls on his best toothy grin for the cameras and desperately hopes they look like the picture Kolivan and Sendak want them to be, red blazer against blue.

Keith releases him and steps towards the metal gate, and hands grab for him and shove notepads under his nose.

“Oh my God, Keith!” a girl blabbers as Lance watches him scribble a loose signature. “I love you so much!”

Keith smiles a little awkwardly. Like he knows what his job is, but he’s never quite figured out how to deal with the clamoring crowds. Hah, finally, something Keith isn’t as good at as Lance. Lance puffs his chest as she catches his eye and her jaw hits the floor.

“Lance! Can you sign it, too?!”

“Of _course_ ,” he says—thankfully a lot less strangled than he feels. He takes the pen from Keith, their fingers brushing, and signs it from over his shoulder. Fans are neutral ground, most of the time. They’re just teenagers. Teenagers with a weirdly large bank of knowledge about him and the band. Teenagers who know where he is at every moment… Anyway.

Bless her, though, she doesn’t mention the obvious implication of Lance being at a premiere Keith’s attending.

Eventually, Keith pulls away from the wall per Kolivan’s not-so-subtle request and Lance follows. Keith’s hand returns to Lance’s waist. For the cameras.

A few paces down, an official interviewer for the carpet scrambles for their attention. A man shoves the enormous camera perched on his shoulder in their faces as the woman holds out a bedazzled microphone with trembling fingers. Lance doesn't catch her name. Her eyes scour them like a bird of prey.

"... McClain here as your plus one?" she asks, not bothering to take the edge of thrill out of her voice.

Keith, bless him, quirks a signature cool smile and tightens his grip on Lance's waist. Touch, Lance remembers. Keith knows it grounds him.

"Yeah, he is," he says, the picture of calm and collected, a thumb rubbing along the seam of Lance’s blazer. God, Lance could never pull this shit off without him. "I kind of had to drag him out here, though."

She giggles, nearly topples over, when Lance gasps indignantly.

"Can I just ask you two the question on the tip of everyone's tongues?" Lance vaguely wonders how much she'll earn from this question alone. "You clearly hit it off at the Grammy's — congratulations, by the way, Lance."

"Thanks, babe," Lance replies, to which she blushes.

"Um, so, are you two a thing, now? Like—"

"Are you asking if we're together?" Keith asks. None of the trimmings. Straight the point. Here it comes, and— "Yes."

"Oh! Wow, okay.” She flushes, her lined eyes blown wide.

And there it is! No takesie-backsies now.

"I think the cold medicine made it pretty obvious," Keith says. "I took that one straight from _What Happens in Olkarion_."

Lance scrunches his nose.

 "You told me to never take any pages from your movies," he says with a pout.

"I never said I couldn't."

Something in Lance's stomach twists at the small smirk on Keith's lips. The reporter's raucous laugh barely registers beyond the beating of his heart in his ears.

Lance decides to ignore it.

"You guys are too cute!" she gushes. "Did you know you're the talk of the town?"

 _That's kind of the point_.

"Yeah, it's weird," Keith says, because, even though it's fake, it's fucking strange. "That picture at the Galra Records Grammy After Party was really the first time we met. It’s been difficult to keep it under wraps."

This is the most Lance has ever heard Keith talk at once. With a start, he realizes it's because he's talking enough for them both; Lance's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth like sandpaper. He clears his throat and focuses on anything but Keith's arm on his waist.

"Not that we really mind," he adds. "All the reactions have been really sweet. The ship name war between the Voltron fans was, dare I say, iconic."

"I totally voted Klance, by the way," she says. Maybe Lance _should_ learn her name.

"You have common sense! See, Keith? It's clearly superior!"

Keith rolls his eyes and bites his lip.

"I'm not going through that argument again," he says. When he shakes his head, a piece of carefully gelled bang falls back over his forehead.

“Are you looking forward to the movie, Keith?” she asks, changing direction. Keith nods.

“Rolo’s told me about it. It’ll be strange to see him in something completely different.”

“I don’t know. I think there’s similarities between _Mission: Balmera_ and _Love on Daibazaal_!”

From somewhere behind the camera, Kolivan jerks a hand into their vision. The reporter catches the movement and readjusts her grip on the microphone.

"Thanks for talking to Q News," she says, shaking both their hands. "I know this premiere is for _Mission: Balmera_ , but I think your love story has it beat."

"Oh, we better," Lance says. “I’m not this handsome for nothing.”

She blushes when Lance winks, and Keith lets his arm fall from Lance's waist only to lead him away by the hand.

Farther down, Keith finds the stars of the movie and exchanges excruciating pleasantries with every single one. Some shake his hand, others go in for a hug, and most squeeze the life force out of Lance, too.

"It's about time you got a new boo!" a girl Lance has literally never seen but who apparently plays the crime boss of a narcotics ring gushes, slapping Keith on the shoulder. Keith grimaces and laughs.

By the time Keith drags Lance off the carpet by the tips of his fingertips, Lance can practically see the fatigue rolling off him in waves. The inside of the grandiose theater is mildly quieter, but celebrities, PR agents, and journalists mill around and talk to each other in shrill voices.

"Did you sleep?" Lance asks, low enough just to be heard by Keith.

"Depends on your definition of sleep," Keith shrugs. His hand twitches at his side, and before Lance can freak himself out, he takes it again, rubbing his thumb in turn over Keith's palm. " I didn't think it showed."

"Nah. I just noticed the make-up artist cake the concealer under your eyes."

"Asshole. That didn't happen. Look, premieres are just—tiring. That's it."

Kolivan catches Keith’s attention again, gesturing towards the theater’s bar. More burly men Lance assumes are his buddies sit in the stools. Keith only needs to nod to let him go.

"At least all the terrifying paparazzi stuff is over," Lance says, watching Kolivan disappear into the crowd. Keith's hand flexes in his.

"Thank fuck. I thought she'd never stop talking." He rolls his head on his shoulders, then smirks a little. "You did good, though. I guess all it takes to get fun and flirty is to throw a girl in the mix, too."

“What—” Lance bawks. “You always bring that up! Why?!”

“Because—"

“Never mind, I don’t wanna know. Anything you say will be to bruise my ego, and my ego is already in the ICU as it is.”

“Poor Loverboy Lance. Can’t handle his own with a boy,” Keith tuts.

Lance almost fucking sees red.

“If we weren’t in public right now, I’d…” He trails off, catching Keith’s mirthful eyes.

“You’d what?” he asks innocently.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Lance huffs, and he makes to stalk off in the opposite direction.

But he’s still holding Keith’s hand. Keith pulls him harshly back and Lance stumbles, catching himself with his other hand on Keith’s shoulder.

“We’re going in the theatre now,” Keith says, low and amused. “You don’t know your way around here.”

Lance scoffs. He could make it in all the same. Still, he lets himself follow Keith like a puppy through the crowds.

“So how many of these people do you actually know?” Lance asks after Keith waves to the fifth one.

“Three,” Keith answers. “Rolo is here somewhere. And I know the two lead actors.”

They join a trail of people migrating slowly towards the massive double doors at the end of the hall. People glance at them and whisper to each other. Lance catches the eye of one and winks, to which they go pink and glance quickly away.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop staring?” Lance asks.

“It’s our job to keep them staring,” Keith says. “Remember?”

“Yeah, I know… It’s just…”

Keith faces him and drops their clasped hands in favor of wrapping both arms around Lance’s shoulders.

“I thought you knew how to put on a show,” he says under his breath.

“N-not. I mean on _stage_ , but not—”

“I thought I at least taught you something. I guess not,” he sighs, pulling his arms away.

Lance catches him by the elbows, heart thumping wildly in his chest, throat, and ears. Damn, Keith. It’s like a _switch_ for him. And Lance knows how to flip switches, but when Keith does that—put his arms around him, moves in so close Lance drowns in his musky cologne—it’s like the shade’s been pulled over his eyes and he can’t find the switch to begin with.

He can still feel the other attendee’s eyes on him, on them. Lance leans in and tugs Keith closer to him, close enough that he could drag his lips over the shell of Keith’s ear if he really wanted. Close enough that no one can hear him.

“How do you do that?” he whispers. “One minute you’re awkward, the next you’re tired, and the next you’re, like, totally down to ‘put on a show’, whatever the fuck that means. You’re killing me here, Keith.”

Keith shivers and leans away, a mixture of amusement and something Lance can’t name on his face.

“I’m an actor, Lance. It’s what I do for a living,” he says, then furrows his eyebrows. For a second, Lance is entranced by that lock of gelled hair falling over his forehead. He wants tuck it away again. “Maybe I can dumb it down for you.”

“Hey!”

“Think of it like you’re onstage. Even if you have the avian flu, you have to put on a good show for your fans because they paid for it. You don’t feel good, but you know what it _looks_ like to feel good, and no one outside of your mind can tell the difference.”

Lance rolls it around in his mind for a moment. Yeah, those shows have happened before.

“Do you think I’m interested in all the female co-stars I’ve had? No. But I know what it looks like. And I know what this, right here, looks like to everyone around us.”

At Keith’s last words, Lance’s attention is abruptly brought back to the world around them. They’re at a film premiere. Lance has Keith in his arms, and they’re whispering to each other at close quarters.

“Good job, Lance,” Keith says, quirking a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “I think you’re catching on.”

The double doors open. Keith steps back and saunters away with the moving line, leaving Lance frozen in place. Before Lance can shake out of his Keith-induced stupor, one of the three people Keith knows at the premiere grabs Keith’s attention, and Lance watches the genuine—or, he thinks it’s genuine—grin unfold on Keith’s lips.

Something Keith said the first time they met pops into his mind. And, no, not the microphone comment. Although that... you know, that one never really leaves.

_“You act like flirting is a battle,” he says, clearing his throat to tamp down the disappointment._

_“It is,” Keith says. “And I won.”_

Keith’s still fucking winning. He’s always fucking winning. Lance’s ego isn’t in the ICU, it’s in the goddamn morgue.

There’s only one way to get back at him. Observe the weakness. Use it to Lance’s advantage. Destroy Mr. Romance at his own game, because dammit if that hasn’t been Lance’s title for the past two years in this spotlight.

As they near the entrance, Keith’s actor friend notices the hush over the line and follows suit, leaning down to whisper in Keith’s ear just like Lance did not a minute ago. Keith’s fingers play with the hem of his cardinal red blazer. Whether it’s subconscious or not, Lance doesn’t know, but he files it away. It’s somewhere he can start.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I really appreciate all comments and kudos. If you so please, reblog [this post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/183029734066/love-song-in-c-minor-chapter-three) on my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/), too! Also, as a bonus, check out [this post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/183014613946/voltronseatbelts-okay-this-might-be-niche-but) I made about LVICM! Keith and cry about it with me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows to what Keith is referring. On a hanger in the closet is a loose pink cropped shirt bought completely on a whim in a Miami strip mall last year. Pidge dared him to wear it onstage, but he opted to eat questionable sushi take-out and get food poisoning instead.  
> Why the fuck did Keith look at his closet? Never mind that. What fucking party is this?  
> From Keith. _You're considering wearing something else. Don't._  
>  Lance cuts off another noise and digs through the hangers for the damned crop top. He holds it in front of himself and Pidge whistles. It’s… _so_ short. And feminine. And everything Loverboy Lance has been striving to divorce himself from for the past few years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe I promised to post chapter four within the month, and I actually made good on that promise? Wild! I can't believe it either! We're getting closer to some of my favorite scenes and tropes. I would love to get chapter five out in two weeks, but I have a few major projects due in fic and school I am incredibly far behind on, so I'm gonna give myself three weeks to update. Three weeks! Hopefully sooner. 
> 
> This chapter is a cool 9.5k. Thank you to the HappyChat for always the insane amount of encouragement. And thank you to everyone here and on Tumblr for the support! Every message and reblog makes me choke up with appreciation. This fic is my child, and I'm so glad you guys are enjoying reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it.

A _slam_ echoes through the apartment as Pidge drops her laptop in front of Lance.

"Hey, mind the toaster waffles!" he huffs.

"Look, Lance," she demands, climbing onto the bar stool beside him. Any other day, and Lance would tease her about how her short legs only reach halfway to the floor.

Any other day, but not today.

"Holy shit.” Lance pulls the laptop closer to him. "I forgot this article was set to come out."

"Well, it's a good thing your favorite Pidgeon has a Google alert set for all things 'Klance'," Pidge says. "You'll never guess what everyone is saying."

Oh, Lance can guess. The article is front and center on _People_ , copied on other sites, and shared a million times between Twitter, Tumblr, and whatever the hell sites everyone and their conservative mother convenes on.

 _All You Need to Know About Hollywood's Darling New Couple: Lance McClain and Keith Kogane_ says the title, displayed in enormous bold letters that stretch across the screen.

"What am I?" Pidge asks, prodding Lance in the side.

"Yeah, yeah, you're my favorite disease-carrying bird," Lance says absently. He scrolls through the article before reading it. It's _long_ , first of all. Whoever co-authored it between _People_ and Galra Records compiled every single outing, pap photo, and tweet from the last three weeks into one glorious master post on Keith and Lance.

_The unlikely pairing between Keith Kogane, an actor who's starred in every popular romance film on Netflix in the past five years, and Lance McClain, the vivacious front man of pop indie band Voltron—who until a month ago was presumed straight—only burst onto the scene three weeks ago. Sparks flew at the Galra Records Grammy's After Party..._

_... fans love the flirting on social media between the two love birds who bonded instantly at their first meeting. [Attached tweet. @hunksorangeheadband — JUST DM ALREADY.] Needless to say, everyone's just as enamored with them as they are with each other!_

_Though they danced around each other for weeks, the two finally confirmed their relationship at the premiere of_ Mission: Balmera _, stealing the show from the stars of the movie! With an arm around Lance's waist, Keith..._

Lance's stomach turns and he pushes the laptop sharply away, shoving a cold toaster waffle in his mouth to stop himself from groaning.

"So?" Pidge asks, leaning forward with one elbow on the counter. She snatches the last waffle and waggles her eyebrows.

"I dunno," Lance shrugs lamely. "It's..." Weird? Voyeuristic to read about? Overwhelming to know it's all fake? "... We look cute."

They do. That's the whole problem.

Before the thought wiggles itself any further into Lance's already mushy brain, his phone vibrates on the counter. Lance grabs it to shut it off, no thank you, when he sees _The Mothership_ flashing on the screen.

Oh, fuck.

“You never tell me anything, Leandro!” his mother’s staticky voice yells through the receiver the moment Lance picks up. Other voices fight to be heard, each word as unintelligible as the next. “Out, out! Take your nephew and get out!”

Lance cringes and pulls the phone away from his ear.

“Sorry, Mama,” he says, casting a helpless glance to Pidge. At ‘Mama’, she holds up her hands and hops away, choosing to root through the fridge instead of helping a friend in need. “Pidge got me sick and the single came out. Everything’s been hectic.”

“No time for your own mother?!” she scoffs over the slam of a door on her end. The voices disappear. “My own son. This doesn’t seem like you!”

“Why not! I am me!”

Lance brings his knees to his chest, digging them into the cool stone of the counter.

“Don’t think I haven’t forgotten when you called me at three a.m. to talk about Plaxum! When will I get to hear about this Keith? I can’t live off Veronica’s knowledge alone.”

Aw, jeez. Lance bites his lip, looking again at the article. He needs to tell her it’s fake. He can’t lie to his own mom, can he?

“Leandro,” she says, her voice now soft. The warmth soothes his frazzled veins, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “You haven’t been serious about anyone in a year. Veronica showed me the video from that premiere, and the way you look at him—”

“Mama!” Lance interrupts.

“—is something I haven’t seen since Plaxum. If Keith is someone important to you, you can tell me.”

Fuck. Lance desperately wants to crawl out of his own skin. She sounds so sincere, and it figures because Keith is, like, half-boy next door and half-Hollywood hottie. Of course Veronica would only show her the boy next door. Of _course_ his mom would like him and want Lance to be, fuck, happy.

Hunk shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and eying Lance curiously. Pidge mouths _his mom_ , and he cringes in sympathy.

“And Veronica is so excited!” his mother continues. “She said you looked very cute together in that selfie. If you’re still together when you come home next, you need to bring him.”

“Mama, it’s – it’s way too early for that. I’ve known him for, like, a month.”

“Yes, and I said if! Tell me, what food does he like? I can make a list—”

“Seafood. No, wait, I don’t know! Mama, please.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll back off. But remember where you get your romantic streak from, Leandro.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, burying his face in his free hand. He hears Pidge’s protests as Hunk no doubt shoves her out of the way of the fridge, and Lance remembers the car coming to pick them up. Allura should be around soon. “Listen, I have to go. I’m actually, um, busy.”

She sighs loudly into the receiver. “I understand, _mijo_. I’m calling in the weekend, though, and you better put that into your schedule.”

“I will,” Lance mumbles. “Bye, Mama. Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The line clicks dead. Lance lets the phone clatter to the counter and groans loudly.

“Did you tell her?” Hunk asks from where he leans on the other side, peering into the empty toaster waffle box.

“I can’t,” Lance says. “She’s too excited. What do I say when she’s already planning a menu for his visit?”

“That’s maybe not ideal,” Hunk says.

Lance throws his arms up in exasperation. “I know! But she’s always so happy when I meet someone I, you know, actually like. Or at least look like I like, I guess. I can’t do it!”

Hunk sighs and tosses the box into the overflowing recycling bin.

“Come here, buddy.” He rounds the bar, and Lance gratefully burrows into his pajama-clad chest.

“I, for one, think this is ridiculous,” Pidge pipes up.

“Thanks, Pidge,” Lance says, his words muffled in the fabric.

“The whole thing is ridiculous.”

“I said thanks, Pidge.”

“I mean it!” She crawls back onto a bar stool. “She’d understand. She’s your mom, Lance.”

Lance straightens up and pouts at Pidge, who looks back innocently. Ah, what it must be like to be a pint-size carton of _rude._

“You mom isn’t across the country, Pidge,” he retorts. “And she’s not worried about your wellbeing because you live with Matt. I just—I can’t.”

Before Pidge can spoon-feed him more rudeness, Lance’s phone buzzes again on the counter, a notification lighting up the screen.

From Keith. _Did you see the article?_

From Lance. _Yup. Pidge forced me to read it._

From Keith. _We make a good couple. In photos_

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Lance refuses to reply and scrolls through his other texts instead while Hunk clears up the kitchen mess (mostly consisting of Pidge’s energy bar wrappers) and Pidge flops onto the couch with her DS. There’s too many. Lance is too social. He needs to rectify that immediately.

From Nyma. _Is this why you haven’t pulled any moves on me lately? Super cute interview, btw_

From Lotor. _I’m only texting because Allura told me. I didn’t look up the video myself. I’m formally inviting both you and Keith to my birthday party in April._

From Veronica. _U R A TERRIBLE BROTHER_.

There’s even one from Romelle, the band’s hair and makeup artist for tour.

From Romelle. _Just wanted to say you look like you’re glowing! Is it a face mask, or is it a special someone? ;)_

Lance cracks a smile at that one and debates replying.

The door swings open and Lance glances up to see Allura, her silvery-white curls draped over a flowing blouse, a contrast to her worried expression.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asks, crossing the room to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Never better,” Lance replies with a wink. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a taken man. You won’t be hearing me complain about being single while drunk for at least the next two months.”

Pidge gives a weak cheer, but Allura just sighs and pats his shoulder.

Another text comes through.

From Keith. _I saw a tweet asking if you’ve met Kosmo yet. Don’t think they’ve forgotten the morning show interview._

Lance snorts and, before he can stop himself, types a reply.

From Lance. _ur the one who hasn’t let me meet him yet!!_

From Keith. _I think he’d like you._

Lance shoves the phone into his pocket. Per tradition, he frisbees his paper plate into the trash monster.

They need to take out the trash. Or get the housekeeper around again. Whatever, Coran really can’t expect two growing boys to keep a good house, can he?

“Coran’s downstairs,” Pidge announces, climbing over the back of the couch. “It’s press time!”

“Don’t say press time. Please, for my sanity,” Lance pleads, to which she snickers.

“Press time, press time, press time!” she yells as she darts away. Ugh. Press time.

 

. . .

 

“ _Be the picture of domesticity_.”

Those were some of Sendak’s orders: a stark departure from the rumors floating around Loverboy Lance for the past year. It’s not something he particularly minds, but it takes some adjustments. A pap shot in a bar is fine, but now that Keith and Lance are official, what’s more valuable are the private moments between. Something to reel the fans in, to make them feel like they’re personally witnessing the revolutionary relationship between two leading men in 2015.

And that’s how Lance finds himself sitting uncomfortably straight on Keith’s couch, waiting for him to get the dog from the backyard.

It’s exactly the bachelor pad Lance would expect from a boy like Keith, but instead of the apartment complex Voltron share, it’s smack in the middle of the suburbs, sandwiched between cookie-cutter houses with neatly manicured lawns. Mama McClain would pick something like this for Lance if he let her.

The inside is something else. It’s minimalist in décor, from the black feature wall to the slim black leather couch to the sculpture that might be a rendition of Squidward’s Bold and Brash in the corner of the room. The only clutter is the mess of consoles under the enormous flat screen television, but framed photos and what looks like collectible figurines line a thin cabinet on the opposite wall.

Lance glances from side to side. No sign of Keith and the dog yet. Well, just one peek won’t hurt. Keith did the same in Lance’s apartment, didn’t he?

He moves away from the couch, admiring each corner of the room in turn before stopping at the thin cabinet, a dark wood piece with glass doors. The photos are all in simple white frames, carefully organized in a line. He recognizes baby Keith in the first one, frowning as he poses with another boy, probably Shiro, and two adults Lance figures are his adoptive parents. In another photo is an older Shiro with his arms—no, arm. One arm—around a dark-skinned man, both smiling like crazy.

Between two photos of reluctant Keith and happy Shiro is a Wolverine figurine on a little white pedestal. There’s more, scattered between the frames and lining the shelves in the cabinet. Some Lance doesn’t recognize, but they’re all posed ready to fight and, Lance notices, meticulously dusted.

A door slides open down the hall accompanied by the _click clack_ of nails on wood floors. Lance jumps back onto the couch moments before a bundle of black fur streaks into the room.

“Kosmo!” Keith orders, to no avail. Kosmo skids around the room, spots the strange human, and bounds onto the couch.

“Holy—” Lance yelps as two paws bowl him over into the cushions. “This is not a puppy!”

Keith, the bastard he is, watches in amusement as Kosmo proceeds to lick over Lance’s face and press those paws painfully into his chest.

“He likes new people,” Keith says simply.

“Well, he’s cute and all, but could you reel him in a little?!” Lance cries out.

“Heel,” Keith orders, and Kosmo springs from the couch and sits neatly by Keith’s side. The slaps of his tail wagging against the floor echo audibly.

Lance wipes his face in disgust. He tries to frown, but the dog is _damn_ adorable—now that it’s not pummeling his stomach on what he increasingly expects are Keith’s orders.

“That’s a fucking adorable dog,” Lance says in awe as he flattens his hair. “Wait! We need to commemorate this.”

“For Snapchat?” Keith asks.

“I think it might be Instagram worthy.” He slips his phone out of his pocket and opens the camera, framing it for Keith and Kosmo. “Do you think this is enough for Sendak?”

Keith thinks for a moment, then hums, “I think we could do better. Give me your phone.”

Lance hesitates for a moment when Keith strides across the room and plucks it out of his hands for him. Kosmo trots along, his enormous fluffy body knocking against the sleek coffee table. When Keith sits on the floor and gestures for Lance to follow, Kosmo nudges his nose under Keith’s arm.

“Are you sure you didn’t drag a wolf into your house?” Lance jokes.

“Sometimes we think he might be one.” He opens his fisted hand to reveal treats in his palm and holds it out for Lance to take one. “Okay. Hold out your arms and say ‘hugs.’”

Lance gives Keith a skeptical look, but Keith’s already holding his phone up and concentrating abnormally hard on the framing. Keith… taught his dog how to give a hug? That’s like something Keith’s character in _Haggar’s Diary_ would do—not Keith himself.

“Mr. I’m-Not-Touchy-Feely taught his dog to give a hug?” he asks incredulously.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Just do it, Lance. I’m already filming.”

Lance purses his lips, but Kosmo still whaps his tail against the coffee table in front of him, interest piqued by the treat. Fine. He’ll play Keith’s games.

“Kosmo,” Lance says, lifting his arms. “Hugs!”

Kosmo jumps onto his hind legs and lets Lance dive in for a hug, wrapping his arms around the soft, thick fur.

“Oh my god,” Lance gasps into Kosmo’s thick scruff. “Your dog is heaven.”

Keith chuckles as Lance pulls back to feed Kosmo the treat with a wide grin.

“You like him more than me,” Keith says.

“Uh, that’s not that hard,” Lance laughs, scratching Kosmo behind the ears. “People definitely only like you for the space wolf.”

“I thought I was Mr. Romance?”

“Wrong again, Kogane. You couldn’t seduce a fly.”

“I seduced you, didn’t I?”

Lance’s attention snaps to Keith, but Keith only smirks as he ends the recording and hands the phone back to Lance.

“Instagram worthy,” is his only response.

Right. Instagram. Lance wills the beating of his heart to slow the fuck down. 

“Did you, um, really teach him that?” he asks as he types out a caption. _This is now my space wolf._ And by extension, space human. You know, domesticity rules.

“Uh, yeah. But Shiro suggested it.” He runs a hand through his hair awkwardly. “He wanted to impress Adam, and he doesn’t have the patience to train Kosmo.”

“Adam?”

“His fiancé. They’re not here right now.”

Lance worries his lower lip, his ministrations in Kosmo’s silky fur slowing.

“Do they…?”

“They know. I can’t lie to Shiro about a fake relationship.”

"Right. Of course. Duh. Why would you—what's the point of lying to your family about fake dating someone? Duh."

Keith squints and Lance refuses eye contact. Boy, Kosmo's fur sure is soft!

"Anyway," Keith says. "Should we go?"

"Yeah." Oh, thank god, yeah. Lance immediately unfolds himself from the floor and Keith follows.

In the front hallway, Keith rummages around in a chest drawer and pulls out a ball, tossing it in one hand while he finds a ball thrower to go with it.

"No leash?" Lance asks.

"If he knows how to hug you, he knows how to behave on a walk," Keith scoffs. "We're just going down to the park in the neighborhood. No one bothers me here, so it'll be fine."

As if to show his point, Keith opens the front door, and everything Lance once knew about dogs flies out the window. Kosmo, unlike the shrieking chihuahua of his sister and the Garrett Family's timorous bulldog, calmly trots ahead of Keith on the neat sidewalk path. He seems to already know his way, only stopping occasionally to sniff at a bush in search of the territory of rival dogs.

Lance shoves his hands into his pockets and walks beside Keith, switching between staring at Keith's profile and staring at the houses around them.

"So, who chose this neighborhood? You or Shiro?" Lance asks, breaking the comfortable silence Keith's built up around him.

"Shiro," Keith replies, catching the ball and keeping it there. "Our parents moved away when I was seventeen, but they let me stay here if I lived with Shiro. He likes it here because it's safe."

"You don't strike me as someone who likes safe," Lance says. He kicks a stray landscaping gravel rock back into someone's front yard. "I bet you'd live in... somewhere a lot cooler than this."

"Nice one," Keith snorts. "It's whatever here. Not the same as living in an apartment complex with your friends."

"I have to admit, it is a lot cooler to live like me. The McClain-Garrett residence is a banger for parties. And when Allura is right down the hall, I can bother her any time I want," Lance grins. "Galra Records picked them out, though, so I sadly can't take credit."

"They did?"

"If they had their way, we'd live in the same fucking house again like we did last year, but I can only take so much of Pidge clipping her toenails in the living room before I lose my mind."

"But why?" Keith asks, puzzled. Kosmo bounces eagerly in place in front of the gate to the small neighborhood dog park,

"Something about, like, Voltron's family aspect being a part of its image."

It's a lot of mumble jumble Lance, to some extent, actually understands, but he pretends otherwise. It's easier to say it's fun posting about Voltron movie night than waxing poetic about craving the intimacy of your idol's friendships.

Whatever. Voltron movie night still fucking rocks. It's even better when Pidge and Allura go back to their apartments at the end of the night and Lance is left to eat the last of the ice cream blissfully alone.

Keith opens the gate and Kosmo streaks through, already barking so loud it rings through the air. A few other dogs chase toys and catapult over the makeshift obstacle course on one end of the field, their owners scrolling through phones on benches dotting the outskirts. True to Keith's word, they barely glance up. So, it's that kind of neighborhood.

"Okay, I get it," Keith says. "It's less about Voltron's music and more about the band itself."

"Don't put it like that! They still like our music!" Lance protests.

"They do. I do."

"Oh, you like our music, now? You barely heard Crystal Venom before I took you to the studio, and if I remember correctly, you haven't been to one of our concerts, either."

"Shut up. I put Crystal Venom on my work out playlist to make up for it."

Keith shoves Lance out of the way and snaps the tennis ball into the thrower. He whistles and Kosmo, panting already, sprints to follow the yellow dot arching through the sky.

They go back and forth like that for a while, passing the thrower between them and seeing who can sling the ball the farthest.

"I swear that almost flew over the back fence!" Lance declares, waving the thrower around in victory. "I beat you at your own dog game!"

"No way! I did the same thing just before you!"

"I refuse defeat. Kosmo, bring your new favorite person the ball!"

“No! Kosmo, come here!”

Lance watches Keith giggle and run after Kosmo, who switches directions until Keith growls in frustration and flops onto the grass. Kosmo, of course, proceeds to lick over Keith’s face.

“Ugh, gross!” Keith groans, pushing him lamely away. “No more treats for you.”

“Aw, Kosmo, I’ll give you treats,” Lance says.

Keith flips him off. Lance winks back.

It’s nice. Maybe Sendak has a point. Lance’s never gone to a park with any of his girlfriends. Now, he’s been to two with Keith. It’s different, but… he doesn’t hate it. Seeing Keith roll around on the grass with Kosmo and a quirk of a smile. He doesn’t hate it.

Speaking of Sendak.

"Are we being domestic yet?" Lance sighs, dropping to the ground beside the two of them. Keith snaps the thrower again, sending Kosmo halfway across the park.

Lance lounges back on his elbows, lazily watching Keith track the dog's movements. His face pinches at Lance's question.

"That's stupid," he mutters.

"Excuse me? You're calling some homely hanging out and posting it to social media stupid?" Lance scoffs.

Keith rolls his eyes, passing the thrower from hand to hand.

"No. I mean, neither of us are domestic. Why should we pretend to be?"

"I'll have you know I can be domestic as fuck," Lance says. "I can be so domestic. Staying in? Cooking dinner? I can do that."

"I highly doubt Hunk lets you use the kitchen."

"My mom taught me how to make _arroz con pollo_ and that's all I need to know."

Keith mimics Lance's pose, leaning onto his elbows and knocking his feet together. They follow the bundle of black fur chasing another dog, spotty and brown.

"In an authentic relationship, you wouldn't post about the domestic stuff, anyway. That's private," he says.

"And how do you know so much about domestic relationships?"

"Contrary to your belief, I haven't been single forever," Keith says. "And it's not exactly hard to find a willing partner."

Lance looks away guiltily. Wow, yeah. It dawns on him he kind of decimated Keith’s love life, and the cords tighten around his chest.

"Sorry," Lance mumbles. He rips a few blades of grass from the ground.

"For what?"

"That you're here with me, pretending to be domestic, when you could be. You know. Like you said, Mr. Romance isn’t lacking in options."

"Neither are you. You can walk into any room and have almost any girl you want, just like me. Difference is, you’re okay with it," Keith says. He's so close his sneaker almost touches Lance’s ankle. "It's not like this was your idea. You have no clue the kind of hype the film premiere created for _Love on Daibazaal._ ”

"Yeah, but it was, like. It was _started_ by me and my stupid decisions. We wouldn't be here if I'd just—"

"If you'd what? Kept shutting a part of yourself away? Kept ignoring the other half of that room? That's bullshit."

"That's easy for you to say," Lance huffs, sitting up and pulling his knees to his chest. He takes his phone out for the pictures he pinky-promised Coran but makes no move to take them. "You're an actor, you've been out for half a year, and half of the America already fell in love with you when you were twelve. I'm... _me_."

Keith cocks his head. “Who’s you?”

"When Voltron started out, I was a gangly Cuban kid looking to fit in through music. Now, I'm the flirty, raunchy, available lead singer of Voltron.” His breath hitches and he fumbles with his phone. “Well, I was. Now, I don't know anymore."

Keith looks at him like he's inspecting a precious gem, checking for scratches and flaws. His dark eyes are sharp and unflinching, and Lance refuses to make eye contact. It's unnerving, is what it is.

"I made a mistake. I wasn't supposed to come out." The words tumble out now, a crack in the dam of Lance’s mind. It's not something he can talk to Hunk about, he realizes. But with Keith, here. Keith might understand. "But I thought—Sendak said—that if I just kept it on the down low, sales wouldn't shake that much. And then you—"

"That's stupid."

"Again, that's not the point—"

"But it is!" Keith sits up, too, the thrower abandoned as Kosmo makes his way back to them. "Fuck that. You can't expect yourself to stay in the closet so your fans still think they have a chance with you. And for sales, what the fuck?"

"It's not just me, Keith. You're a lone wolf; you act for yourself and Kolivan. Me?” Lance fights to keep his voice low and level as something vile claws up the back of his throat. “I have three band mates, a manager, Sendak, and everyone ever at Galra Records who's involved in recording or marketing or the tour or _whatever_. I have a family to support, and I don't want the fans to hate me.” He forces himself to take a deep breath. In, out. The vile taste dissolves slightly. “And I shit on all of it for some guy in a bar, when it could have been any girl, and it would have been fine."

Keith doesn't answer, only widens his eyes and parts his lips in surprise.

"And that's why...." Lance pauses, crushing the grass in his fist once, twice. "I don't know. That's why it's not stupid."

It _is_ stupid. Being domestic for a front, that is. But Lance would rather perform in tighty-whities than give Keith the satisfaction, because the stupidity is the only thing between Lance and all those articles and tweets about his bisexuality Pidge thought she cleverly hid from him.

Pidge isn't the only one with a search bar.

Kosmo comes back again, this time laying at Keith’s feet and rolling onto his back, tongue flopping about from exertion. Lance snaps a photo and posts it to Snapchat, sans caption. The fans will figure it out.  

“That… sucks,” Keith finally says, like he carefully shaped the words with his tongue and let them go.

“You really have a way with words,” Lance replies dryly. “It’s okay, really. Galra didn’t know they were signing on a closeted bisexual. We just have to deal with it.”

Keith bites his lip as he smooths the fur of Kosmo’s belly.

“You still shouldn’t have to.”

Lance just shrugs. He’s learned to swallow this kind of hurt and live with it, even if it’s… gotten worse since they were first signed.  

“This is kind of nice, though,” he whispers. “Being domestic. I don’t mind it.”

“Neither do I,” Keith says. He smiles, earnestly this time. “And walking down the premiere carpet with you. It was nice. Usually it feels kind of lonely.”

True, Keith’s arm around his waist felt a lot nicer than staring down the barrel of a camera and braving the attack alone. The paps were more pleasant with the threat of a boyfriend in their presence.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “Plus, the movie was badass.”

Keith smiles a record third time, and this time Lance captures it on camera. Before posting it to Snapchat, he saves it on his camera roll. He’s too sweet in the soft sun with a dog at his feet to pass it up. 

 

. . .

 

Grass stains still decorate the knees of Lance's jeans. He scrapes at them with his guitar pick as he listens to Allura and Coran discuss important managerial duties on the other side of the rehearsal space. He wants to listen, really. Well, maybe he doesn’t. The Coran-ager has everything covered anyway.

He'd left Keith a few hours ago, slipped away before he had to face the mysterious Shiro and Adam with the excuse of needing to help Hunk before they left for the rehearsal space.

"I've taken the liberty to update your calendars for the months of April to October with the tour schedule," Coran explains. "But the Asian leg of the tour still has its kinks, so December is left open."

Lance's head snaps up.

"December?" he asks. "Is that—"

"I'm afraid so," Coran says, looking away guiltily. "There's a few days off for Christmas, but that might be all we manage."

Lance groans and bang his head against the foam padding covering the walls. The electric guitar feels heavy on his lap. If tour starts in April and ends... whenever, when will he get to see his family? He needs to call Veronica. Or his mom.

Allura distracts Coran with a question about the color coding of this tour schedule, so Lance takes it as permission to take out his phone with the intention of shooting Veronica a quick Snapchat. Instead, he's greeted with the picture of Keith from earlier, grinning at the camera while petting his space wolf.

He smiles softly, the faint scratch of the guitar pick on the threads of his jeans stilling. Lance might want a career change as a photographer, or maybe Keith really is a model.

Something Keith said flits into his mind. _And walking down the premiere carpet with you. It was nice. Usually it feels kind of lonely._

Lonely... But facing it together... Facing the barrel of camera...

_It's easier staring down the barrel when it's lining up a shot between two targets._

That feels like an A Major song. Happy to have found someone to share the spotlight. Romantic.

Lance drops the phone and pick onto the floor and sets the guitar (carefully, because he isn't a heathen with his instruments) to the side. They keep one of Lance's notebooks on top of the piano exactly for this purpose. He scrambles up and darts across the room, snatching it off the closed lid and flipping to the next empty page.

Tonic to the third... _I can’t face the lights without you_... Up to another minor...

The room around him quiets, noticing his focused attention. He doesn’t notice them.

"Ooh, Lance found the zone," Hunk says, pausing in his futile fiddling with an electronic tuner. "Whelp. We're not rehearsing any time soon."

Allura laughs, but Lance barely hears her. The image of Keith, so bright with a halo of light around his messy mullet, brands itself in his mind as he scribbles lyrics. It’s replaced by Keith at the premiere, awkwardly signing autographs but easily pulling Lance along into the theatre.

He doesn't read into it. Keith inspired him, that’s it. Before he can blink, he has the first verse and a chorus. When he looks up again to ask Hunk to play him an arpeggio, Coran's already disappeared, and Pidge might be napping on the ratty couch.

"You got something, buddy?" Hunk asks. Lance cocks him a smile and waves the notebook. "Alright. Let's hear it."

 

. . .

 

From Keith. _Are you free tonight?_

"Lance, pay attention! I'm trying to score a three-pointer!" Pidge demands, snapping her fingers. Lance tears his attention away from the phone just long enough to catch the M&M she throws at him with a perfect arc. "And Pidge scores again, leading the team into an easy victory!"

Lance grins and taps out a reply.

From Lance. _Just hanging out with Pidge because her normie brother turned their living room into a flash card maze._

The reply is instant. Lance blinks in surprise when his phone buzzes again.

From Keith. _Can Hunk take her? You're coming with me to a party._

From Lance. _I don't get a say in this? Rude_

From Keith. _Fine. You wanna come to a party with me tonight?_

From Lance. _Is this in the contract?_

From Keith. _Kolivan won't oppose it._

"Lance, come on! Trick shot!" Pidge interrupts again. "You're not ignoring me for Mr. Romance, are you?"

"I am," Lance replies. He ducks forward as Pidge catapults another M&M, catching it perfectly on his tongue. "In fact, I rescind my position on your team."

From Lance. _Well, since u asked so nicely_.

From Keith. _I'll be there in twenty_.

"What?! Tell me you're joking," Pidge cries as Lance unfolds himself from his corner of the couch and rolls off. "At least let me into your fridge."

"You're welcome to stay and not just because you already have a key. Also, I give you permission to mess with Hunk's equipment."

"Wow, wait, are you really leaving? I thought today was our day off," Pidge says, following Lance down the hall. She bounces onto his bed as Lance tears off his stained sleepshirt and rummages through the closet.

"It is, but relationships don't take days off. Even fake ones," Lance says. He chews his lip as he considers his closet. What kind of party was this? A Hollywood film party? What the fuck did people wear to that? Like, he’s been to a couple, but—

A buzz at his hip interrupts him.

From Keith. _Wear that crop top I found in your closet when you were sick._

Lance chokes, slapping a hand over his mouth.

"What? Did he murder a puppy or something?" Pidge asks.

"I can't physically answer," Lance groans. He faces his closet again.

He knows to what Keith is referring. On a hanger in the closet is a loose pink cropped shirt bought completely on a whim in a Miami strip mall last year. Pidge dared him to wear it onstage, but he opted to eat questionable sushi take-out and get food poisoning instead.

Why the fuck did Keith look at his closet? Never mind that. What fucking party is this?

From Keith. _You're considering wearing something else. Don't._

Lance cuts off another noise and digs through the hangers for the damned crop top. He holds it in front of himself and Pidge whistles. It’s… _so_ short. And feminine. And everything Loverboy Lance has been striving to divorce himself from for the past few years.

"Didn't you get that—"

"I blame you, not me. Keith wants me to wear it."

Pidge whistles again until it dissolves into a giggle. "That'll give the fans a fucking field day. Please, please wear it. Don't even question why."

Lance changes into a pair of black skinnies and holds the shirt out in front of him. _Welcome to Miami!_

He puts it on.

He's in the bathroom, frantically running gel through his hair and inspecting suspicious spots on his skin, when Keith texts him one more time.

From Keith. _I'm outside._

Lance steps back to inspect his stomach in the shirt. It cuts off at his ribs, an expanse of tanned skin rarely on display. He sucks in a breath. It's fine. He trusts Keith. He better get black-out drunk at this party.

"Don't eat all my toaster waffles! Hunk will be home in two hours!" Lance screeches through the apartment as he wrenches open the front door.

"I make no promises!" Pidge yells back.

He grins as he slams the door and races through the building.

There's Keith, leaning against his car door, casually inspecting his nails in stupid fingerless gloves and a half-buttoned sheer floral shirt. The curtain of hair is pulled back with a hair tie, but a few locks escape and frame his eyes in a way that makes Lance bite back a groan when Keith looks up to see him.

“Gotta be honest,” Keith admits. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

“Yeah, and I feel uncomfortable,” Lance huffs, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “Do you always randomly invite people to parties?”

“You’ve been inside with Pidge the whole day if your tweets are anything to go by,” Keith shrugs. He kicks off the car and lets his eyes travel over Lance’s figure. “And it looks just as good as I imagined.”

Okay. Lance. Lance won’t read into that. He’ll choose to ignore that.

“Are you gonna tell me what it’s for, anyway?” he asks instead, rounding the car and getting into the passenger seat. Keith joins him, sticking the keys into the ignition.

“It’s this thing from someone both Rolo and I know,” Keith says, like that explains it all.

“Ah, the infamous co-star Rolo,” Lance says. Keith rolls his eyes. “Is there no love on Daibazaal after all?”

Keith scoffs, but the corners of his lips twitch.

“Let’s just say that he thinks there’s something off screen, too, and meeting you might persuade him otherwise.”

“That sounds devious,” Lance says. Keith throws him a full-blown smirk, and something stutters in Lance’s chest. “I’m so in.”

 

. . .

 

The party is some loud thing at a fucking enormous house. Cars park up and down the winding driveway, and Lance can see lights and hear music pulsing from halfway down the path.

Lance tugs at the shirt hem again. These aren’t people he knows. It’s a birthday party, and he doesn’t fucking know who it is.

“What the fuck, Keith,” Lance hisses. Keith freezes as he’s about to open the car door. “Why’d you make me do this?”

“It draws attention,” Keith says, matter-of-fact.

“Okay, well why do _I_ have to draw the attention?”

“Lance.” Keith faces him, his face framed by the weak light of the cabin. “You love attention.”

Lance studies him for a moment, the way the light outlines the line of his jaw and curve of his lips. He gulps.

“Is Jennifer Lawrence here?” he asks.

“She might be.”

“I’m not going in.”

“Lance, now is not—you know what? Fine. We’ll switch shirts. Get out.”

“Wait, wait, wait!”

But Keith is already out and rounding the car, popping his shirt buttons as he goes. He yanks open Lance’s door and holds the shirt out in one hand.

This. This was _not_ the plan.

Lance’s mouth sets a fucking record for drying out as he takes in shirtless Keith in front of him. God, the guy fucking works out. Even now, in the dim light of driveway, Lance drinks those abs. He doesn’t know whether he wants to hit the gym or _be_ the gym Keith hits.

Oh, wait! He’s bisexual. It’s totally both.

“Well?” Keith raises an eyebrow, waving the shirt a little.

“Right. Duh. Changing shirts,” Lance stammers. He climbs out of the car and pulls the crop top off, struggling a little with the neck hole before finally popping free.

As Lance fumbles with the buttons, Keith wastes no time in pulling the crop top over his head. It falls neatly to the middle of his waist, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination because there’s nothing to cover it in the first place.

Finally, Lance does up the last button, pointedly concentrating on that instead of Keith.

“Nope,” Keith says, stepping forward into Lance’s space. He replaces Lance’s fingers with his owns and undoes three, bringing it down to Lance’s sternum. Every touch sears Lance’s chest. “There. See? Now stop worrying.”

“I don’t worry,” Lance says, though his voice comes out three octaves higher than intended. “Me? Worry? Never.”

Keith scoffs and leads them down the driveway.

“I can’t help but feel like a Harry Styles imitation,” Lance muses, fingering the sheer fabric of Keith’s shirt. He can admit the look is good, though. There’s no confidence boost like a shirt that doesn’t do its job.

“Not with your ratty oversized sneakers, you’re not,” Keith says. “Take my hand.”

They’re climbing the steps of the entrance, now, greeted by a hulking bouncer stationed outside the wide-open double doors. Bodies already writhe just behind the sweeping double marble stairs to the beat of lights and deafening music. Lance dutifully slips his hand into Keith’s as they enter the crowd. To not get lost. To sell the picture. Keith’s hand is warm against his, and Lance can’t help but watch him in the fucking crop top instead of search the crowd for Jennifer Lawrence.

She’s basic, anyway. She’s nothing compared to Keith Kogane.

A screeching squeal cuts its way through the music (some EDM track with a weak beat drop he’s heard a million times on the radio) and a figure pushes through the bodies, a glass of nondescript wine in either hand.

“Keithy!” she cries, offering one of the glasses to him. She glances down at their entwined hands and follows Lance’s up his arm and to his face. “And Lance McClain! ‘The Hunted’ has been _on repeat_ in my car. Charles is so sick of it! Can’t believe Keith bagged a boy like you!”

Before either can reply, she shoves both glasses into Keith’s chest and pulls out her phone.

“We _have_ to pose for Instagram.” She tugs Lance in by the bicep and holds the phone in front of them, Keith watching in amusement. Lance grins and winks on command, and the mystery girl lives for it. “Lance, you flirt, you! Listen, Charles is directing this new movie about werewolves. It still needs to get greenlit, but you and Voltron would be perfect for the soundtrack! His people will contact your people, okay? Bye, sweeties!”

She snatches back her wine glasses and squeezes between the writhing bodies.

“Do you know her?” Lance asks.

“Not a clue. You’ll find out tomorrow,” Keith shrugs.

They both share a look, and Keith takes Lance by the hand again and follows the trail the girl left.

The party moves beyond the first living room into the second and third, like a cow’s digestive system. It spills into the kitchen, where a couple Lance swore he saw in a superhero movie make out passionately on the expansive marble island, and three men in suits discuss something in hushed tones around the sink.

“So, all actors?” Lance asks as Keith passes him a crystal glass of dark alcohol. It’s a little quieter in here, but only by half a decibel.

“The industry. It’s a birthday party, which means it’s fair game to get drunk with friends and network with strangers,” Keith explains, his eyes scanning the crowd of the cow’s third stomach visible through the archway connecting the two rooms. “Mostly get drunk with friends. You might be able to audition for Mamma Mia 2 while you’re here, though.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Lance croons. “I love a good ABBA.”

“Also,” Keith continues, releasing Lance’s hand and downing half his drink in one go with hardly a grimace, “the birthday girl loves a good magazine feature. Shit’s about to get crazy.”

On cue, the staff roll the wall of glass windows back, letting the people push onto the extensive stone patio. Cheers go up, a girl Lance vaguely recognizes from the Disney Channel streaks past, and a man climbs onto the couch and yells for the music to turn up.

It does.

Here’s the thing: Lance has been to fucked up parties. When you’re the flirty singer with multiple Top 40 hits under your belt, you get invited to fucked up parties. It’s another thing to go to a fucked up party attached to Keith Kogane, having just come out of the celebrity closet, and barely knowing anyone but everyone else knowing him.

“At least one person is going to get papped in the bushes at the edge of the property before the night ends,” Keith warns, slamming his empty glass on the counter and jolting the frenching couple out of their reverie.

“What’s our goal?” Lance asks.

“Avoid it, but let everyone know we’re here,” Keith says, and he sets Lance’s glass down, too, before taking him by his forearms and drawing them back into the action.

The dance floor is evidently in the third living room. Groups and couples writhe around to the music, all furniture hidden in a separate wing of the house to make way for the bodies and decorations.

Lance’s body burns wherever Keith touches him, but he sees the eyes around them focus on their movements and imagines them mentally comparing the scene to everyone Lance’s been with in the past, so he pushes past and lets Keith wrap his arms around his waist. He suddenly wishes he were wearing the crop top just to feel them against his skin.

It’s a bad thought. He remedies it by bringing his own arms around Keith’s waist, _his_ skin, and letting the pounding bass drown out the feeling.

The position feels familiar, but Keith makes it brand new. It’s the boyish figure, Lance thinks. All those hours in the gym. There’s something so distinctly masculine about the cut of his hips and the muscles of his back that makes Lance lament all the years lost in his life where he could be doing _this_.

Keith breaks his train of thought when he leans up, practically on his tip-toes, and whispers into Lance’s ear.

“You’d look more convincing if you actually danced,” he says as he slides his hands onto Lance’s shoulders. “Or can’t you?”

“Don’t question my dancing abilities,” Lance bites back. “I’m just worried about Pidge.”

“Pidge is fine. Come on, Voltron. Did Allura base the robot on you?” Keith draws back, mirth dancing in those dark eyes.

Lance doesn’t know whether his gasp is from the sight of Keith or his indignation. “Take that back!”

“Remember, just imagine we’re putting on a show. Lead me, leading man.”

The film premiere flashes into Lance’s mind. A similar position to this, wrapped around each other and talking lowly. Is there a reason Lance always ends up in Keith’s arms?

The premiere. The competition. Now. Well, this is as good of a time as any to target the potential weakness… and exploit it.

A slow smile curls Lance’s lips, and Keith raises his eyebrow in question. He ducks down close, close enough that he knows Keith can feel the wash of his breath. He gulps once and whispers, “For a guy who claims to be anti-touchy, you sure touch me a lot.”

“I’m not—” Keith cuts himself off and rolls his eyes. “Just dance, please.”

Lance pulls back and doesn’t miss the way Keith’s gaze is just off center. One point to Lance.

And dance, he does. They start in earnest, a little separated and mimicking those around them. Like a show. They fit in here, even though Lance has never felt more like a misfit in his life dancing with a boy. He attempts to take it in stride, drinking up the faint blush on Keith’s cheekbones instead and using it to fuel the movements of his body.

A gyrating couple bumps into Lance, knocking him closer to Keith, and he returns his hands to Keith’s hips automatically.

“Shit,” Keith hisses, glancing around Lance’s shoulder. “There’s Rolo.”

The infamous Rolo. Lance can take it up a notch. With Keith in that shirt, he fucking wants to.

His grip tightens, and Lance feels the muscles of Keith’s stomach jump beneath his thumbs. The song changes to something a little fast-paced and grimy, and Lance uses his leverage to bring them closer still until the sheer fabric of Lance’s—Keith’s—shirt rubs against Keith.

“This is how you dance?” Keith breathes, and Lance sees the flush painting his neck and cheeks. No more smirk. Lance beams back.

“I told you not to question my abilities, Kogane. I’m not Cuban for nothing,” Lance says. His eyes wander down to the sheen on Keith’s neck, on his waist. Keith’s not looking at Rolo anymore; instead, his eyes flutter closed as he feels the rhythm and follows Lance’s body, just like he said.

Lance’s gaze snaps up again to the relaxed look on Keith’s face, and heat flashes down his spine. He looks _good_. He looks good in Lance’s shirt. Before he can think, before he can blame it on the one drink he’s had so far, he leans down again.

“You look good in my shirt,” he mutters into the skin of his neck. Keith’s breath hitches.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, but the vice-like grasp of his hands on Lance indicate otherwise. “It’s barely a shirt.”

A cheer ripples through the crowd, and everyone jostles enough to throw the two of them off balance and out of each other’s arms. Lance misses the contact instantly, wants to crawl back in and elicit the same reaction again, but Keith glances up and finds someone behind him. Rolo, maybe.

“Good show,” he says, patting Lance’s shoulder. His eyes flicker over Lance’s face, and he slips past.

Another cheer, louder this time, and that’s the last Lance sees of Keith before he’s dragged away by hands and voices shouting slurred names. He tries to keep track of him, but it’s impossible. There’re too many drunk people and someone else hanging off him now.

When he turns around, he finds himself in the arms of a girl wearing matching bedazzled bra and sunglasses.

“Krystal Hall!” she greets, shoving a shot glass in each of his hands. “You might remember me from _Diamond’s are a Balmeran’s Best Friend._ You’re that gay one in Voltron!”

Lance winces and downs one of the shots. If only Hunk were here as a stabilizer tonight.

“I’m bi, actually,” he says.

“So, you still think I’m hot!” She squints suspiciously. “Right?”

Before he can reply, another person pulls him away like a gift from the gods, and they both stumble onto the patio, the biting night making Lance’s teeth grit. He gulps down the other shot and prays it’ll warm him up and erase the last minute from his brain.

“McClain, my man!” the boy shouts, clapping him on the back. “You have to get me into one of those Galra events! I wanna break into music!”

Lance loses track after that of the people he talks to, the alcohol that appears in his hand, and the amount of times he sees Keith’s ponytail bob among the people. He hasn’t seen Rolo even though Keith claimed he did, and he doesn’t know how this will convince him Keith is taken when they’re not even together, but, whatever, it doesn’t really matter. Maybe.

What matters isn’t all the instances he catches someone eying him warily or the people who know him only by name and chart number. He knows the article attached by a pin to his chest. What matters is Keith took him here, and he’s gonna have some fucking fun. The last time Lance saw Keith at a party, he sulked at the bar the whole time. Here, as he spots him hopping from person to person, he seems to be having a little fucking fun.

Lance is at the edge of the pool, lit an eerie blue by the inset lights and colored ones spilling out of the mansion, egging someone into pulling off their clothes and cherry-bombing into the freezing water.

He’s on the kitchen counter, adjusting a party cone hat someone strapped to him and chatting animatedly with a girl eating three Twizzlers at once about how to accurately count rhythm.

He’s curled up in the corner of the white leather couch, patting a girl on the shoulder while she cries about her dumb boyfriend and eats gourmet truffle popcorn by the handful.

He’s on the patio again, finishing his second craft beer and debating with a couple on whether they should join karaoke in the second cow’s stomach, when he catches Keith on the other side of the pool. Keith, criss-cross applesauce at the edge, staring into the water and nursing a bottle of his own.

“Hey, I should—” Lance starts, cutting off the conversation going around him.

“Ooh, yeah, you should go to your boyfriend,” the girl crows, throwing an arm over her boyfriend’s shoulder. “How did you get him, anyway? I know Keith from when we did _Haggar’s Diary_ together. He didn’t talk to anyone! How’d you get through to a loner like him?”

Lance shrugs, more focused on the way the crop top’s ridden up Keith’s stomach, illuminated by the glow of the pool.

“Call it fate,” he says. Call it a contract, but not right here, right now. “Or my blessed good looks.”

She rolls her eyes and waves him away. He cocks her a signature smile and turns to make his way around the pool to Keith when he stops short.

There’s Rolo, lounging next to Keith with his jeans rolled up and feet in the pool. He leans in to whisper something in Keith’s ear, then pulls away and glances down at his shirt. Keith presses his lips into a thin line and crosses his arms.

Something fierce bubbles up in Lance’s chest, something he doesn’t know how to name. Rolo, in his shirt buttoned to the top, morphs it into something else.

“Actually,” Lance says, backtracking to the couple. “Wanna finally make this a pool party?”

A devious smile unfurls on the boy’s face.

“I know how to make this a pool party,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Shall I do the honors, Jenny?”

“You shall,” Jenny replies solemnly.

He leaves her side and slinks away, following the edge of the expansive pool to grab a girl sporting a pink birthday crown and sash. She screams, then laughs in recognition as he lifts her with ease onto his shoulders.

“No, it’s cold!” she protests weakly, but he marches on, carrying her to the edge. The other party-goers rush in, too, teetering with her.

“Cannon ball!” the boy screeches, and he jumps in with the birthday girl still on his shoulders.

Despite the temperature and lack of space-heaters, half the party hollers in unison and follows them in, abandoning phones on the edge to grab each other on the way down.

Keith and Rolo jolt apart, blinking at the sudden action. Rolo looks mildly annoyed, which only brings Lance to the conclusion that they didn’t really put that good of a show on earlier.

He carefully places his phone and bottle on the ground, backs up, and, with a running start, leaps into the pool.

The frigid water rushes in around him. Under the surface, the music and people are farther away, muffled in a way that brings Lance back to just tipsy. He breathes out, watching the bubbles slosh and float to the top.

He breaks through to the surface, gritting his teeth against the shiver in his spine, and darts around the people splashing around the pool.

There, at the other end. Lance swims forward and ducks below the surface a few yards away. With a devious grin of his own, he emerges again right in front of Keith, craning his neck to catch his wide eyes and the hair, sans ponytail, framing his face.

“Hey, Rolo,” Lance says, but his eyes don’t waver from Keith’s face. The pool isn’t deep, so he stands on the bottom, bringing him out of the water until it’s chest-high. He places a hand on either side of Keith on the patio.

“Lance, this is Rolo,” Keith says, maintaining the stare. “Rolo, this is Lance.”

“Oh,” is all Rolo replies. Tsk, impolite. He glances back and forth between the two of them and coughs awkwardly. “Well, I’m gonna, uh, go get another drink. You want one, Keith?”

“I’m the only tall glass of water he needs,” Lance answers for him. His chest flutters when Keith shakes his head, lips quirking in what might be a smile.

“Okay, whatever,” Rolo mumbles, and he’s gone.

Keith breaks eye contact, watching Rolo walk away. With what expression, Lance can’t tell.

“That was a good one,” Keith says. “You really are learning.”

“Only from the best,” Lance winks. “You should introduce me to Rolo properly one day.”

“Maybe. At the premiere.”

Keith takes another drink from his beer, staring beyond Lance to the swimmers behind him.

“Got any electronics on you?” Lance asks suddenly, desperate for Keith’s attention. It’s an addicting sort of burn, and he _wants_ it. Keith looks at him, eyes dropping down for a split second to the shirt sticking to Lance’s chest.

“No, why—”

Lance knocks the bottle out of the way, wraps his fingers around each forearm, and yanks Keith into the pool.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much reading! I love all your comments and kudos. If you want to, like and reblog [this post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/183526551811/love-song-in-c-minor-chapter-four) on my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> Also, I have a tiny, fun offer: If you leave a Voltron or Keith Kogane fan Twitter handle in your comment, I'll find a way to put it in in future chapters! You can even make a Lotor handle if you want. It can be anything from @hunksorangeheadband to @kuhlance and beyond, so long as it's appropriate!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you stand with Coran, you can watch me,” he whispers with a waggle of his eyebrows he knows Keith can’t see. Though his heart stumbles, he stays so close his lips almost touch Keith’s ear. For a cherry on top, he slots their fingers together properly and squeezes. “You’d be a good boyfriend.”  
> “Shut up. Fine,” Keith grumbles, jerking out of their shared space.  
> Lance grins as Keith stalks off with crossed arms, taking a place next to Coran. Another point for Loverboy Lance. He can see why Keith did it from the start; it’s an addicting sort of fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Having a consistent posting schedule, and posting at times when people are most likely to be online to read it? Never heard of it. But it's still been less than a month since my last update! So I'm counting that as a win. I do have finals and other projects coming up real fast, so I'm super unsure when I'll update after this, but the chapter after this is one of my favorites. I'm not going anywhere!
> 
> Thank you guys for the incredible fake fandom Twitter handles. I'll be peppering them into future chapters, and if you still have an idea, leave it in a comment! I might moonlight as @hunksorangeheadband, but leave a handle and you can stan Voltron, Keith Kogane, or even Lotor, too. 
> 
> I said on my Tumblr that I'm making a playlist for this fic! It'll be one song per chapter, updated as I update chapters. The caveat is I'm mediocre at playlists so I don't have it ready yet, but it'll be here for chapter six. If you have song suggestions HMU!
> 
> And as an unrelated bonus, [here is sneak peak](https://klancepinefest.tumblr.com/post/183596196038/title-and-ill-form-the-heart-author) for the fic I wrote for Klance Pinefest! That'll be posted on April 24, probably before the next chapter of this fic. I'm so fucking excited to post it, so stay tuned for And I'll Form the Heart and its art! 
> 
> I thought this would be one of the shortest chapters, but I added another scene and now it's a chill 9.3k. Also, I just gotta give a mild content warning for the end there. It's tame, but... just so you know.

Lance is a strong man. He can admit when he’s attracted to someone. Harry Styles? Attractive. Sexual awakening. Previous girlfriends? Obviously. Victoria’s Secret models? No one needs to be strong for that.

Keith Kogane? Lance is a weak, weak man—to anyone but Hunk. Rom-com marathons and Skittles.

It's different when you're in the closet. It's more different when you're out. It's even more different when he's your fake boyfriend, and you wake up to a million Twitter notifications that remind you of last night, the party. 

They ended up papped by the bushes at the edge of the property, soaking wet and laughing their heads off, looking every bit the part. Some investigative reporting uncovered that Keith wore the same sheer floral button-up in a press junket for a movie released last year, and everyone goes more ballistic than usual. It’s endearing, if not a little creepy.

@leith-is-superior – RED ALERT, LANCE IS WEARING KEITH’S SHIRT. LANCE IS WEARING KEITH’S SHIRT AND THEY’RE BOTH ACTUALLY WET

@hunksorangeheadband – @leith-is-superior DOES THAT MEAN…

@alicelovespidge – @hunksorangeheadband THAT LANCE OWNS A CROP TOP YES IT DOES. AND THEY’RE W E T  

@vvoltron I’d like to thank not only god but hunk garrett for these pictures. I never want to get the image of lance in a wet sheer shirt and keith Kogane in a crop top out of my head

Neither does Lance, he thinks as he scrolls down the Twitter feed. Neither does Lance.

Lance sighs deeply and rolls over, staring at the high ceiling of his bedroom. The car’s arriving in half an hour to take them to some hotel for an interview, and Lance really should be taking the shower in a siege before Hunk gets up, too, or Allura comes barging in for a ten-minute face mask.

Instead, he opens Twitter again and types out a quick message.

@lanceymcclain – @Keith_Kogane u can send me the dry cleaning bill if I get my Miami souvenir back

His mild hangover doesn’t help the outrageous difficulty level of showering, but he takes comfort in the fact someone else will blow dry his hair for him. As predicted, Allura barges in for a face mask, and Hunk hogs the bathroom for the rest of the morning. But that means there’s no time for breakfast, so the four of them grab a bag of Cheeto’s each and head to the car.

Lance doesn’t even know what this interview is about. He’s barely looked at the schedule for the day, just knows Coran will sweep them where they need to go.

And sweep he does. The car arrives at the back entrance of the hotel, depositing them in a service hallway an employee of _Music Press_ leads them down. Hunk carries a sleep-cranky Pidge into the ballroom, where in one corner they’ve set up a little hair and makeup station and in another the cameras and white backdrop.

“Allura!” a voice cries, and the four of them whip around to find a doe-eyed girl with flouncy blond pigtails waving frantically.

“Romelle?” Allura gasps. “You’re in LA!”

“Yes! Lotor’s last tour dates ended, so I’m back!” Romelle says. They apprehend each other in a tight hug, and Romelle moves on to hug Hunk and Pidge in turn. When she gets to Lance, she puts her hands on her hips and searches his face with a sly smile. “Did you get a new face wash? Moisturizer? Tell me.”

“A new zest for life,” Lance replies, pulling Romelle into a hug. “I lost my old one somewhere on the East Coast last year.”

She laughs and bats his shoulder, then drags him to one of the flimsy chairs set up before the mirror.

“I think I know what it is!” she says as she cards her fingers through Lance’s damp hair. Lance melts under the touch. “Don’t tell me. Is it… a certain vampire prom date?”

Hunk winces from his chair, where someone slathers foundation over his otherwise flawless skin. He’s right; lying to magazines is one thing, lying to the fans is something Lance doesn’t want to acknowledge, and lying to Romelle is a whole different can of fetid, moldy worms altogether.

“Er—” Lance starts, but Romelle barrels on.

“It’s such a surprising development!” she yammers as she reaches for a bottle of heat protectant. “I mean, I remember when you would mercilessly flirt with Allura every day.” Allura giggles at the memory, which, _traitor_. Lance is good at flirting and she appreciated it. “And now you’ve gone and gotten yourself the man of everyone’s dreams. I used to imagine he was my vampire prom date back in high school.”

Normally, Lance would reply. Instead, he tries to lose himself in Romelle’s deft fingers. Anything but answer her rambling and implicate himself in a lie to one of the band’s closest friends. You don’t spend the summer travelling around Europe without spilling some feelings to your stylist, but this fake relationship didn’t start on tour.

And he can’t say anything now, not in front of _Music Press_.

“He looks like a vampire in real life,” Pidge pipes up from her seat on a table where she swings her legs aimlessly. “Some might say broody and mysterious, I say horribly pale with eye bags. Could sparkle in the sun, but I haven’t seen him show any skin yet.”

“Hey! He’s a perfectly okay level of pale,” Lance protests with crossed arms. Like marble. The memory from the archive comes unbidden: the skin of Keith’s waist, tough and smooth all at the same time beneath Lance’s hands.  

“So, what’s he like?” Romelle asks. “Normally I wouldn’t ask, but this is my teenage crush we’re talking about here. You know I’m into movie stars more than musicians!”

“Unfortunately,” Allura says, throwing Romelle into a fit of giggles that has her tugging at the ends of Lance’s hair.

“He’s…” How do you describe you fake boyfriend to someone? “An asshole. But in a cute way.”

There. That should do it. Romelle turns on the blow dryer anyway, saving Lance from any more elaboration.

The conversation moves onto more pressing matters like which thousand-dollar pair of jeans Hunk should wear, and all too soon they squish onto the couch meticulously set up on the white backdrop. Hunk, then Pidge, then Lance, then Allura, all artfully draped over one another on a couch just one seat too small.

“Your knees are too bony,” Lance mutters to Pidge.

“Your face is too bony,” she shoots back, and the cameras begin rolling.

 The interviewer sits prim in the chair across from them just out of frame, a young woman with flouncy curls and an even flouncier dress. When she smiles, her cherry-red lips reveal white chiclet teeth. Lance remembers her from last year’s _Music_ Press interview. If he weren’t tired and a little hungover, this would be one of those interviews where he turns the charm dial to max.

“Good morning, Voltron!” she says with a little wave. _Carla,_ Lance’s brain supplies.

“To you, too, Carla,” Lance says, throwing a wink her way for good measure. “Long time no see! How’s the kitten?”

“She’s a cat, now, and she’s very cute!” Lance and Allura coo, ever the ones with soft spots for tiny, fluffy animals. “How are you guys?”

The interview starts out like this. It’s innocent enough, with Carla asking them about the last year, a picture Pidge put on Instagram of Allura dancing to an unreleased song, and their craziest fan interaction yet. Lance still fidgets, knows the topic on the tip of her tongue, but she hasn’t caved yet.

“Your single ‘The Hunted’ from the new album released two weeks ago,” she says, un-crossing and re-crossing her legs. “How did that go?”

“Just wonderful! It landed at number five on the charts,” Allura says, her eyes lit with the memory. Lance grins, too. “We’ve never had a single go to top ten immediately before.”

“It’s quite a feat! But it doesn’t surprise me. When I met you guys last year, I knew you would shoot to stardom so incredibly fast. When _The Rise of Voltron_ became so huge, did you expect all this? The Grammy, the charting single, the fans?”

“I never expected anything. It’s all mind blowing, and we’re enjoying it as much as we can,” Hunk says. Carla’s searching eyes land on Lance again.

“That’s very humble! But there’s been rough spots, too, right? What about those?”

Hunk steps in again. “Everyone has their rough spots. We just know we have each other. We’re a team; we do it together.”

Pidge and Hunk fist bump.

“Hunk’s coping mechanism is cooking, so when there’s a rough spot, it just means we all get homemade burritos,” Lance says.

She giggles and tucks a curl behind her ear. Lance grits his teeth and braces himself.

“What about you, Lance? Any coping mechanism after your rocky start last month? Or do we already know what, or who, it is?”

“Uh,” he begins, but the words don’t form. He shifts uncomfortably, making Pidge’s knee dig into his thigh. “You gotta elaborate on that one.”

That… might not have been the right thing to say. Her eyes turn hawkish, much too happy to elaborate.

“You came out as bisexual last month, a few days before the Grammy’s,” she says. Aaand there it is.

“I did,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Yup, that happened. Don’t really want to think about it, to be honest! Let’s go back to Hunk’s burritos.

“It seems like every day since then you’ve been with your new boo, Keith Kogane. Any correlation there?”

“New boo,” Lance chuckles, shifting again. “I gotta keep that one. He’ll be so pissed. But, uh…” A huge correlation. One for which he signed an NDA. “Maybe? I haven’t really thought about it that way. Mostly… I just, uh, like him. As a person.”

Lance cringes internally. He knows how he talked about Plaxum in interviews, but back then was _different_ , and he doesn’t know the protocol for Keith, a fake boyfriend—maybe, more importantly, a boy. Maybe he should have paid more attention to Sendak’s instructions.

“You two became awfully close awfully quickly. I mean, we already know you’re the flirt of the band, but he’s your first boyfriend, right? And you’ve only known each other for a month. That’s quite a honeymoon phase.”

Lance frowns and says, “I might be a flirt, but I’m not stupid. I’m just a big believer in romance. Sometimes when you meet someone... you know.”

There. That’s some romantic bullshit. Is that good enough for you, Sendak?

“How did you know with Keith?” she asks, leaning forward like it genuinely interests her.

“Um.” Shit. Say something, anything! “He’s just, ah, different?”

Pidge, sensing Lance’s distress, leans forward to match Carla.

“They’re _disgusting_ ,” she pipes up. “They don’t have attention for anyone else when they’re together. If _I_ had to pick one thing, it would be that when Lance talks, Keith actually replies. Unlike the rest of us.”

“Hey!” Lance pokes her side with much more force than necessary. “Since when have I ever been disgusting?”

“Remember the studio?” Pidge says with a raised eyebrow, like that’s all she needed to say.

Hunk and Allura sigh and nod. Apparently, it was all she needed to say.

“You guys are all traitors,” Lance mutters. “Just see if I ever bring him around again.”

“That’s so sweet,” Carla says, holding the question cards over her heart. “Now I need to know what happened at the studio!”

“You don’t,” Lance says abruptly, slapping a hand over Pidge’s mouth, already open to spill something insidious. “But Keith really liked the album!”

“The album!” Allura cuts in just as Pidge bites Lance’s palm. “What was his favorite again, Lance?”

“Ow!” Lance hisses. “I mean, I think he liked ‘The Hunted’ the best.”

Carla takes the bait. She brings the conversation back to the album, the real subject of the interview. The entire time, though, Pidge’s answer whirls around in his head. Lance and Keith, disgusting? Huh.

When the interview ends and Coran ushers them back to the waiting car, Lance takes the moment of reprieve to check his phone. Nestled into the back row of the car all by himself, he finds a Twitter notification waiting from Keith.

@Keith_Kogane – @lanceymcclain Deal. It looks better on you anyway

Right. The crop top. His heart speeds up involuntarily. Keith’s out to get him again, to win the game. Curse him and his ability to fluster Lance even when they’re not face-to-face.

Lance bites his lip. He can do this. He _should_ do this. Fight fire with a heavy-duty flamethrower and win. Something simple should do the trick.

@lanceymcclain – @Keith_Kogane agree to disagree ;)

Actually, who has the patience to be simple? Lance is not a simple person. Complicated and dramatic are practically his brand.

He scrolls through his camera roll and selects a photo to post to Instagram. It’s one of Keith he must have taken somewhere during the party, lounging on the white leather couch and looking bored at Lance’s phone. He looks like the model the world knows him as, all tousled hair and harsh angles. Lance was planning to keep it to himself, but if they’re talking about who looks better in the crop top…

@lanceymcclain – i think I’ll just let him keep it

 

. . .

 

They’re in public. Stagehands rush around the five of them, carrying clipboards, slopping cups of coffee, and hissing into walkie talkies. Voltron’s already done with hair and makeup, now just waiting after soundcheck to record an acoustic set that’ll go up when the album releases. Five songs, all acoustic except for Hunk’s bass, exclusive to those who finish the _The Return_ Twitter scavenger hunt held during the first week after the release. 

They’re in public. That’s why Keith has his arm wrapped around Lance’s waist as he listens intently to Hunk describe his latest vegan concoction for Shay.

“You must really like her if you’re willing to put up with all that,” he muses. His thumb rubs aimlessly over the fabric of Lance’s thin button-up.

“Nah,” Hunk shrugs and blushes. “I like it. It’s worth it to see the smile on her face, you know? Plus, it challenges my cooking. All Lance waits for is Taco Tuesday.”

“Okay, but your Taco Tuesday is to die for,” Lance says. “We haven’t done one of those in a long time.”

“Why?” Keith asks.

“Too busy,” Hunk replies. “It’s something we’ve done since we messed around in our high school’s band room, so we all have to be there for it, no exceptions. Lately, the only time that happens is on movie nights.”

“Isn’t that on Saturday?” Lance says. He turns in Keith’s loose grip to face him. “Didn’t I ask you to come?” Keith hesitates, thumb stilling, but eventually nods. “Then we’ll just do a Taco Tuesday on a Saturday.”

“Voltron, three minutes,” a stagehand reminds as they pass.

“Can Matt come?” Pidge asks, tapping away at her phone. “He needs a chill day or I’m gonna go crazy.”

“Matt?” Keith asks.

“My annoying older brother. He’s an engineering major. Need I explain more?”

“I know everything about annoying older brothers. Please, no more.”

Pidge giggles and pockets her phone, opting instead to drum a pattern on her thighs.

“Matt is very kind. You’ll enjoy his company,” Allura says with a smile. “It must be strange for you to get thrown into everyone Lance knows just because of…” She trails off, but everyone gets the gist.

“I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice,” Keith shrugs.

“And I’m the nicest of all,” Lance says. Keith rolls his eyes and digs his fingers in, earning a yelp.

“No. That’s Allura.”

“I like you,” Pidge announces. “We’re keeping you, right? We better be keeping you.”

Before Keith can reply, the same stagehand from before appears, gesturing for them to follow to the set.

“Ugh, finally,” Pidge says, bounding away with the stagehand. Hunk and Allura also follow, but Keith stalls. Lance faces him again and cocks his head to the side.

“What do I do?” Keith asks.

“You can hang out in the green room. Or, even better, you can watch us kill it from where Coran’s standing.” Lance points to Coran, muttering inaudibly into a headset beside Camera B.

“You’re a little presumptuous,” Keith scoffs.

“Uh, actually, I have a top ten single. You’re just rude.”

Keith lets his arm fall away as they catch up with the rest, and Lance fights the urge to grab it again. When he steps in the direction of the green room, Lance realizes, hey, to everyone here he _is_ his boyfriend. That’s totally allowed.

Lance grabs Keith’s hand and tugs him close again, ignoring the stagehand’s impatient stare. Instead, he ducks down to Keith’s ear. An enormous part of him wants to jerk back, away from Keith’s unfairly attractive face, but he soldiers on. He’s observed the weakness, he’s exploited it, and now he has a new card in his deck.  

“If you stand with Coran, you can watch me,” he whispers with a waggle of his eyebrows he knows Keith can’t see. Though his heart stumbles, he stays so close his lips almost touch Keith’s ear. For a cherry on top, he slots their fingers together properly and squeezes. “You’d be a good boyfriend.”

“Shut up. Fine,” Keith grumbles, jerking out of their shared space.

Lance grins as Keith stalks off with crossed arms, taking a place next to Coran. Another point for Loverboy Lance. He can see why Keith did it from the start; it’s an addicting sort of fun.

When Lance takes his place on the middle wooden block, taking the guitar someone hands him, Hunk raises an eyebrow. Lance makes a face back.

Lance swallows his nerves as he feels the pinpricks of Keith’s gaze on him. Not counting the Grammy’s, it’s the first time Keith’s watching him—them—perform.

It doesn’t mean anything. They’re just sitting on variously sized wooden blocks, and Keith’s just standing, bored, next to Coran.

They sit in a sort of a semi-circle with Pidge right of center on her cajón. Allura and Lance frame her with their guitars, while Hunk sits on Lance’s other side with the bass. The deep space backdrop twinkles with tastefully draped lights, haloing each of them faintly.  

“Take one for ‘The Hunted’!” someone yells off set.  

Lance lets his gaze flit to Keith, half in the shadows just off camera, as Pidge counts off. Then, they’re playing.

It feels good to do this, on camera with the lights focused on them and their instruments. Lance bellows into the microphone, charming the crew as if they were the audience at a concert. More than once, Lance looks up to find Keith staring back. Lance lets the thrill run its course and keeps going.

After they run the third song a second time, the director calls for a five-minute break. The second Lance puts down his guitar and stretches, Keith emerges from the shadows.

“I have to go,” he says, waving his phone. “Meetings and all that. But I have to admit, you guys are really good.”

“That’s the biggest compliment I’ve ever heard,” Pidge says sarcastically.

“Hey, that’s as much of a compliment as you’ll get out of this guy,” Lance says.

“No, I think he’s holding out on us.” She narrows her eyes in a challenge. It’s a good thing Keith always wants to meet a challenge.

“Your drumming is good, Pidge,” he says, then smirks. “Best five-foot-two drummer I’ve ever met—and the only one I’ve ever met.”

Pidge’s widen, then relax into a similar mischievous smile. “Oh, we’re definitely keeping you.”

She’s swept away by a man with a powderpuff. The others wander off, too, leaving Keith and Lance alone next to the set.

“You’re good, too,” Keith says, though his eyes are trained on the ground.

“You’re so sweet to me, babe.”

“Babe?” Keith asks, looking up with furrowed brows.

“Yeah, you know. Babe, baby. They’re pet names,” Lance says.

“I know what they—never mind. Just, come here.”

“Come here and…?” Keith doesn’t reply, so Lance dutifully steps forward, holding his arms out in what he presumes is a hug. Keith’s not one to hug, but it’s never a bad time to start, maybe?

Instead, Keith yanks him closer with one hand on his hip and the other on his neck.

“I know what you’re doing,” Keith says lowly.

“And what is that?” Lance bats his eyelashes innocently.

Keith scowls. Each wait for the other to vocalize it, but neither do. Keith’s eyes search Lance’s, but Lance is careful to keep his expression calm and confident, like he’s still behind the camera. Keith grips harder, tugging him minutely closer, and he abruptly realizes if he leaned down now… only a few inches…

“We’re still on for tomorrow?” he asks instead with a gulp, breaking the silence.

“Sure, babe.” Keith scrunches his nose. “Nope. I don’t like that.”

“We’ll work on it,” Lance says. He takes Keith’s hands in his and smirks. “ _Babe_.”

“Call me babe one more time and I tear the contract in half,” Keith says, twisting away from Lance’s grip. He whirls around and stalks off, but his lax posture tells Lance they’re okay.

“Bye, baby!” Lance calls. Keith flips him off and disappears from set. Lance just touches his neck and bites back a smile.

 

. . .

 

“You’re kidding me,” Keith deadpans. “I’m never letting you choose a date location again.”

“Come on! It’ll be fun, trust me. You can’t tell me you’ve never been mini-golfing in your whole life,” Lance says, holding out a tiny red golf ball.

“Never. This is stupid. I could be doing anything else right now.” He takes the golf ball and squints at it like it dropped from an alien space ship.

“Hey, if I wasn’t here I would be in a meeting with the rest of Voltron right now. Think of it like a way out. You’re mini-golfing instead.”

“Right. Except, this is still my job.”

Ouch. Okay. Lance glances to the body guard at the edge of the putting green, arms crossed and staring the opposite way. He looks down the way to the little shack handing out the putters and balls, at the two clerks practically hanging out the window to get a better view at McClain and Kogane.

It’s a job.

“It beats being at Galra HQ, though,” Lance sighs, dropping his own ball to the ground and tapping it into position. Keith shrugs like he can’t care less. And maybe he can’t.

Whatever. It’s fine! Lance isn’t lying; the rest of Voltron is in a meeting and updating him via text about the impending tour. The European dates, released a few months ago, are mostly sold out.

From Allura. _They’re thinking about upgrading the venue in Amsterdam. Pidge wants to put black licorice on the rider for that stop, but Hunk refuses._

Upgrading the venue. Now _that’s_ fucking exhilarating.

Keith chose this course purely because it’s space themed, and Lance isn’t complaining. The first hole on Put-of-this-World is simple: gently whacking the ball through a wooden alien’s legs and up the gangway of the awaiting plaster spaceship. Lance makes the shot in one fell swoop, letting out a cheer as he turns to Keith.

“I already hate this,” Keith says. “We’re not twelve. Our mommies did not drop us off.”

“I’m not gonna argue with you. I’m just gonna let you enjoy the game,” Lance says, holding up his hands.

Keith does not enjoy the game.

The first time he hits the ball, it ricochets off the alien’s leg and comes right back to him. The second time, it inches up the gangway before rolling backward. On the third, Keith growls in frustration and hits it hard enough to sail through the air and ping off the spaceship before disappearing into the landscaping.

“I’m done. We’re going back to the terrace restaurant,” Keith huffs, turning on his heel to leave.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Lance grabs him by the arm and drags him back. “Big Guy, can you get the baby’s golf ball for him? I think he’s having a little tantrum.”

“I don’t have tantrums!” Keith snaps.

“Easy, tiger,” Lance says. The security guard drops the red ball back onto the starting point and returns to his station. “Try one more time, and if you don’t get it, we’ll just go to the next one.”

“Have I told you I hate you yet?”

“Yup. Come on, Keith.”

Keith takes up the starting position. He furrows his brows and frowns in concentration, winds his club back, and lets it fly. Literally. Because the ball goes flying again.

“Augh! Okay, I’m actually done!”

“No, you’re not! What did I say? Let’s go to the second one.”

Keith lets himself be hauled to the second hole, another space ship with two aliens guarding the entrance at different angles.

“You go first this time,” Lance urges. He lets Keith line up his shot, then steps in and says, “You’re hitting it too hard. Try being a little gentle.”

“I am _not_ taking mini-golfing advice from you, McClain,” Keith says. Still, he goes at it with less power this time, and the ball rolls past the first alien and stops when it hits the second. Lance grins and takes his shot, gliding easily past Keith’s up the gangway and into the spaceship.

Keith rolls his eyes, but he manages to hold his tongue long enough to put the ball ever-so-gently up the gangway. Well, gently might be a strong word to use. He kicks it up the gangway. He actually kicks the ball with the toe of his boot.

“I don’t think that’s in the rules,” Lance says.

“I don’t care. Let’s move faster and get this over with.”

Hole number three goes in much the same fashion, and hole number four Keith never wants to speak of again. Lance tries again to offer some helpful McClain Mini Golf Advice, but Keith threatens him with bodily harm each time. He attempts the bodily harm when Lance records his feeble attempts at a hole-in-eight for Snapchat, earning Lance a headlock and a well-placed insult on his big head.

“Is it true?” Lance asks as Keith fails on the fifth hole. “Is there finally something the famous Keith Kogane isn’t good at?”

“I know that you’re not good at shutting up.”

Keith puts his hand up like he wants to flip him off, but his stormy eyes slide over Lance’s shoulder and he drops it to his side. Lance looks behind him, and sure enough there’s a gaggle of girls at hole one, tripping over themselves to wave at the two of them.

“Uh,” Lance says, then awkwardly waves back. “We’re not going to cause a mob in the middle of a mini-golf course, are we, Big Guy?”

Big Guy shakes his head.

They move onto the sixth hole, where Keith finally is actually done with the game.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, McClain,” he says, crossing his arms and frowning in a way that should not at all be completely endearing. “But I quit.”

“No, you don’t!” Lance says. He picks up Keith’s club from where he threw it on the ground and presses it into Keith’s chest. “Listen. I have ten years of experience on this mini golf course. I’ve taken five dates here. Granted, none of them were as bad as you, but that doesn’t matter!”

“You know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Do you want my help or not?” Lance asks. “Say yes and I will bestow upon you my boundless mini golf knowledge. Say no and admit yourself as the sore loser you truly are. Also, I sell that to _Tiger Beat_.”

“Ugh,” Keith growls. “Ugh. Fine.”

“Yes!” Lance beams. He shimmies for two seconds before throwing up a salute. “At attention, cadet.”

“I’ll never live this down, will I?” Keith sighs.

“ _Fuck_ no.”

Lance bestows upon Keith every tidbit of his mini golfing knowledge—which isn’t boundless, because Lance isn’t Allura, who is infinitely better at any type of golf than Lance (“When my father was alive, he told me every diplomatic and business decision is made on a golf course. One day, I will meet Sendak on a golf course, and on that day, I will crush him.”).

Keith ends up hitting some correct corners, but by this time the holes have moved beyond simple plaster spaceships into complicated loops around Saturn’s rings and ping pong between every single one of Jupiter’s moons.

“Unfair,” Keith mutters for the fiftieth time.

“Chillax,” Lance says. “You can definitely make a clear shot to the end from here.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Here.” Lance takes Keith by the shoulders and shifts his angle towards Ganymede.

“There’s no fucking way I can make it.”

“Mm, you’re still a little off. More like…”

Lance slides his hands down Keith’s arms and takes his hands in his own. Like this, he can angle Keith more precisely. Just a little to the left, and with just enough power… Lance and Keith take the swing, and the ball ricochets neatly off Ganymede, past Callisto, and into the open door in the Great Red Spot.

As the little door’s motor whirs and it shuts again, Lance realizes Keith’s hair smells like warm vanilla and something a little musky. Wood, maybe. He fits perfectly like this, against Keith.

A shutter goes off in the distance and Lance jerks back, leaving Keith’s touch entirely.

“You been watching rom coms again, McClain?” Keith asks.

“I’m just taking notes from the best,” Lance leans on his putter and attempts a bored shrug, ignoring his mysteriously quickened pulse.

Keith smirks. “I’ll give that point to you.”

Points? Oh, right. A smirk blooms over Lance’s face. He did that, didn’t he, huh?

“Take us to hole seven, Big Guy,” Lance with a grin, nodding towards the security guard. Big Guy jerks into action like he kind of fell asleep, and they leave the slowly advancing group of girls behind them.

 

. . .

 

Mini-golf always makes a guy hungry. After eighteen holes too many (in Keith’s uneducated opinion), Lance kicks back on the red vinyl of the ice cream shop across the street. Keith sits across from him, dipping his spoon into his lame bowl while Lance devours a waffle cone.

“I think you’ve improved,” Lance says, waving around his cone haphazardly.

“Only after you practically apprehended me,” Keith says. “But you’re right. I did kick your ass at Pluto.”

“Uh, I think you have to reexamine your definition of kicking my ass. That did not happen. I think I sufficiently kicked _your_ ass, Kogane,” Lance scoffs.

“If it helps you sleep at night.”

“If it—if it helps you sleep, Keith! Don’t twist this. Let me have one thing in my life.”

Lance doesn’t realize Keith only said it to mess with him until he sees him smirk around his spoon.

“Fine,” Keith submits with a shrug of his shoulders. “Did you know I box? ‘Cause I can kick your ass at boxing.”

Did he… did Lance know Keith boxes? Absolutely not, or else he would’ve been obsessed with that this entire time. Holy shit. Keith in a boxing ring. Keith, sweating, with that expression of pure concentration, punching the daylights out of Lance’s will to live. Keith—

“Your ice cream is dripping,” Keith interrupts.

Huh? Lance glances down to find ice cream dripping down his wrist.

“Shit!” He grabs a napkin, scrubbing furiously like it’ll scrub the blush from his cheeks. “Uh, how did you start? Boxing, I mean.”

“Had to learn for a movie and just kept doing it. It’s nice. Stress relieving.” Keith continues to pick at his ice cream with a small frown. “That was, like, the best movie to film.”

“How come? I thought nothing beat the scene where you drink the principle’s blood at prom.”

“Okay, that was fun,” Keith chuckles. “But I liked it ‘cause it was different. Less wooing girls, more fighting bad guys. Granted, the stunt double did most of the work, but I did what I could.”

“What about wooing girls _and_ fighting bad guys? That’s how fifty percent of my romantic fantasies go,” Lance says.

“I’d be into that if most of what I did wasn’t already wooing girls. You can only take so many rom coms until getting stuck with your coworker in a broken elevator isn’t romantic anymore.”

“You have no taste. That’s a classic trope.” Lance steals Keith’s spoon from his hand and takes a bite of his ice cream, much to Keith’s chagrin. “So, you’d rather meet your enemies in a broken elevator?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed if Kolivan handed me a script for something like that,” Keith hums. “But romantic comedies are kind of my brand. It’d be weird to break from it.”

“Fully disagree. You should go for it. If you’re hot while wooing millions of girls and boys across the world with you bad boy persona, you’d be even hotter in some badass action sequence.”

“Would I?” Keith’s lips quirk in a smile, and _oh_. Lance just admitted to something here.

“… is what someone who’s actually attracted to your ugly mug would say!” he tries again, earning another laugh from Keith.

“You’re not so bad yourself, McClain,” Keith says. His eyes trail a burning path over Lance. “But I’ve already told you that.”

God. Fucking. Dammit.

Lance chooses to completely ignore that and feign immense interest in his ice cream. Keith’s already done, it seems, poking around the empty bowl.

“It would be nice, though,” he says suddenly. “To do that.”

“To do… what?”

“Break away from the brand. Romantic comedies are good, but it’d be sick to fight some zombies in an open field or fly a spaceship.”

“ _Love on Daibazaal_ is set in space,” Lance offers.

“Hardly. I fall in love with an alien and get in a spaceship all of none times the whole film. Then the planet blows up and we die. What a groundbreaking gay movie that is.”

“Are you spoiling your movie in public right now?”

“The world needs to know there’s no spaceships. It’s a fucking tragedy,” Keith says with a stab at the empty bowl. Now that, Lance can agree with.

Big Guy checks his watch conspicuously, a sign they have other duties to which they must attend than gossiping in an ice cream shop for the benefit of the public. When Keith gets up to throw their collective trash away, Lance watches the line of his back. The guy boxes, fuck. Kolivan needs to give him a script for that movie right now, because Lance would watch the _fuck_ out of that.

 

. . .

 

_Keith and Lance – Taking Time from their Busy Lives for Each Other._

“They’re running out of things to say,” Lance says as he scrolls through the article on his phone, twirling around in the bar stool at the breakfast bar, “and just resorting to insulting me again. Check this out—”

“I don’t need to hear it,” Pidge says from the other bar stool. “I’ve already read that article and the five before it.”

“Gee, Pidge. You’re more up to date on me than _I_ am. Are you trying to tell me something?”

“That I should turn off my Google alert? Yes. Stop being so famous, idiot. I’m trying for two hours of sleep tonight instead of one.”

“Aw, Pidge, it means that you care about me!”

“Not anymore, I don’t,” Pidge grunts. “Keith is about to ring the buzzer.”

“How do you—”

A screeching electric buzz interrupts him. Huh.

Pidge grins and waves around her tablet. She hacked into the security cameras. Of course. Because that’s what the drummer of Voltron gets up to in her free time.

“I’ll get it!” Lance yells before Hunk or Allura can get it for him. He races across the floor, slides to a stop in front of the door, and hits the button. “Secret password, pretty please.”

“ _I’ll reveal your address to the world at large if you don’t let me in,_ ” the staticky voice comes through.

“Wow! That’s a convincing password. You’re in,” Lance says.

A minute later, a knock announces Keith’s arrival. Lance opens it to reveal him, leather jacket and wind-whipped hair and all, framed by the warm glow of the apartment.

“Hey, man,” Lance breathes.

“Hey, yourself,” Keith says and steps inside. “Good to know you’re not on your deathbed this time around.”

“Yeah, well, thanks to you. Come on, Hunk’s preparing the taco bar.”

A chorus of hello’s from the rest of the band echo through the apartment, joined by another unfamiliar voice—Matt, Pidge’s brother, already lounging on the couch.

He scrambles upright, frantically patting down his red-brown hair, more unruly than even Pidge’s.

“Hey! Hi! You’re Keith, right?” Matt says.

“Yeah, I am,” Keith says.

“Big fan, big fan. I had my first kiss at one of your movies. Truly, I owe you my life.”

Pidge hops off her stool just to smack Matt on the head.

“You deserve that. Why do you think I never invite you to any events?” Pidge chastises.

Matt winces and shrinks again, but Keith only laughs.

“It’s fine, Pidge,” he says. “He’s cool.”

“See? I’m cool. Keith Kogane thinks I’m cool.” Matt puffs his chest and musters his most masculine smile.

“Eh, you’re pushing it a little.”

Lance retakes his place at the bar as Keith gingerly chooses the last stool. Lance swivels around to watch Hunk work his magic behind the bar as Allura attempts desperately to help in any capacity. Allura is good at many things, but cooking is not one of them.

“This is Taco Tuesday?” Keith asks.

“Yup! All that you see is for tacos,” Hunk says, sweeping his hand to the organized chaos of the kitchen. “Flour tortillas, of course, because we’re not heathens and we’re in the presence of Lance McClain.”

“Hard shell is fine at Taco Bell, but in the Garrett-McClain house? Over my dead body,” Lance says.

“I quite like a hard shell taco once in a while,” Allura comments.

“And that’s why I’m kicking you out of the band. You need to teach me every solo before Slav’s show and the tour, no exceptions.”

She giggles and waves him off before continuing her concerning treatment of the guacamole.

“Also,” Hunk says, pointing a salsa-covered spoon at Keith’s chest. “Did Lance not tell you that Voltron movie night dress code is pajamas?”

“Um, no?” Keith looks around awkwardly to realize that everyone is indeed in their jammies. Lance’s are blue and shark-patterned, by the fucking way. He looks _great._

“Ah! It must have slipped my mind. See, the fans already know, and since we all know Keith is a fan of Voltron, I _assumed_ —”

“Just get the man some pajamas, Lance,” Pidge says.

Lance slides off the bar stool and flicks Pidge in the head. Satisfied with her squeal, he gestures for Keith to follow him down the hallway and to his bedroom.

As he roots around in his drawer, he says, “Okay, I genuinely did forget to tell you, so, sorry about that. It’s usually a Voltron-only affair, except for Matt, who needs to get out of the Holt apartment sometimes before he wilts without sun…light…”

This is where he realizes his grave mistake. Keith is shorter and broader. Anything lance gives him will either be extra adorable, extra hot, or, worst of all, _both._

Better just to bite the bullet, then. He breathes deeply and grabs a random fleecy pair, turning around as he finishes with a lame “Here.”

Only to find Keith right behind him, so close the pajamas brush against his shirt. The memory of Keith’s scent, of vanilla and wood, assaults Lance. But it’s not a memory, because Keith is _there,_ chin turned up to meet Lance’s eyes, lips slightly parted.

Lance, for his part, freezes.

“Thanks,” Keith says. Is it just Lance, or is his voice suddenly even more gravelly? He sways even closer, resting a hand on Lance’s hip. With a gentle squeeze, he takes the pajamas. And as quick as he got there, he steps back and smirks. “I’ll be out in a second.”

And he walks right out of Lance’s door.  

Well.  Um. Lance is just gonna go to the living room, now.

By the time Keith comes out again, they’re all crowded around the bar as Hunk serves up the tacos. Lance glances up at the sound of Keith shuffling into the living room, picking nervously at the sleeves that come down to his fingertips. They’re shark-patterned, just plaid, but the fabric pools slightly at his ankles.

This is bad. Terrible. Lance regrets every decision in his life that’s led to this point. Keith looks like a goddamn kitten with his disheveled mess of hair and Lance’s pajamas.

“Careful, Lance. I don’t want your jaw in the salsa,” Pidge hisses. Lance blinks once and realizes Keith’s already sidled up to the bar, chatting with Allura about her absolutely amazing guacamole.

Bad. Terrible!

He pushes it out of his mind.

Taco Tuesday on Voltron’s monthly movie night is a success. Everyone praises Hunk for his cooking prowess, for which he deeply bows. Even Matt’s kind of cool, because you’re not the brother of Katie “Pidge” Holt without getting used to some star-studded company.

Soon, all the tortillas and toppings have disappeared into their stomachs and Hunk puts Pidge and Matt on mild clean-up duty.

“What’s the movie?” Pidge asks as she toddles over to the sink, barely visible over her teetering tower of dishes.

“Star Wars,” Matt suggests.

“Sure, why not?”

“Hunk, you vetoed that last month!” Lance gasps. “Besides, there’s no need for suggestions. I already have the best possible movie we could watch in the whole world tonight.”

“Oh? And what could that be?” Allura says.

“Stay right where you are.”

Lance catches Keith’s eye and winks as he backs away. He disappears into his room, digs a DVD case from under a stack of unfolded laundry, and returns in a flash.

“Get a load of this,” he says, slapping the DVD onto the counter.

“No,” Keith says immediately, eyes widening. “Under no circumstances are we watching that.”

On the cover is Baby Keith, bowl cut and all, smiling and clutching an enormous golden retriever’s scruff. It’s Keith Kogane’s first movie in theatres: _A Dog’s Birthday Wish_.

“Under all circumstances!” Pidge cries, grabbing the DVD before Keith can make a lunge for it. “How did you find this?!”

“I have my ways,” Lance shrugs nonchalantly.

“How fucking dare you.” Keith aims his angriest glare at Lance, but Lance just grins back. Finding that shop and asking the lady for help was _so_ fucking worth it, just for this reaction. This is exactly what he wanted.

“Let’s remain calm and take a democratic vote,” Allura says. “All in favor of watching _A Dog’s Birthday Wish_ , say ‘I’.”

A chorus of ‘I’s in various pitches answer her from everyone except Keith.

“I can just spoil it for you right now and we don’t have to watch it,” Keith pleads. “The dog—”

“Nope! La la la! Pidge, to the DVD player!”

Pidge vaults over the couch, clutching the DVD to her chest.

Keith crosses his arms and stays where he is as the rest of the group follows Pidge, taking their various places on the couch.

“Come on, Angry Mullet Man,” Lance says. “I went through all this hard work to find your first ever movie to hit theatres and immediately go to DVD and this is how you repay me?”

“How long did it take to find it?” Keith asks.

“Only God knows that one. Turn that frown upside down, Keith!” Lance tugs at Keith’s arms until they reluctantly unfold, and he lets himself be dragged to the couch.

By the time they catch up, there’s only one remaining spot in the corner of the couch. Lance sends a quick prayer to whoever is fucking with him and takes it, patting the sliver of space next to him. Keith, in all his sour mood, doesn’t hesitate to squeeze in. When Hunk throws the blankets around, he gives them the last one to share.

“Everyone ready?” Pidge asks, her thumb hovering over the button on the remote.

“No—”

“Let’s get this show on the road, Pidgey!” Lance yells.

“Wait,” Hunk says. “Picture for Twitter first. It’s a time-honored Voltron movie night tradition.”

Picture. For Twitter. For the public. Maybe it’s a good thing Lance and Keith were forced together.

“Watch this, Keith,” Lance whispers. With an exaggerated yawn, he stretches his arms above his head and lets one drop over Keith’s shoulders.

“So cliché,” Keith says with an eye roll.

Still, Keith doesn’t look nearly as disgruntled as Hunk takes the picture of the six of them and sends it out into the Twittersphere.

@HunkGarrettVoltron – Voltron movie night! We’re watching A Dog’s Birthday Wish :D

Matt flicks off the lights and Pidge presses play. As the opening shots of green meadows and warm farm houses roll across the screen, Keith groans and burrows himself farther into the couch and subsequently Lance’s side.

“ _Our Fido turned eleven the year I turned seven_ ,” the adult narrator begins. A dog bounds through the meadow followed by a stumbling young boy.

“ _Catch, Fido!_ ” Baby Keith yells, throwing a tennis ball. The entire couch coos and Lance presses his free hand over his heart.

“I hate you,” Keith mumbles.

“ _Dad said that dogs don’t celebrate their birthdays! But I knew better. I knew Fido had a birthday wish, and I was going to grant it for him. He deserved it after everything he did for me._ ”

Baby Keith giggles as Fido comes crashing through the meadow back to him, dropping the tennis ball at his feet. Someone in the house calls for dinner, and Baby Keith rolls his eyes _exactly_ like Present Keith.

“I can’t believe it. You were so cute. What fucking happened?”

As Keith on screen says, “ _Don’t worry, Fido, we’ll play after dinner,”_ Keith on the couch punches Lance’s shoulder.

“Next movie night I’ll just dig up whatever old tapes you have of your middle school performances and put them on,” he threatens.

“You wouldn’t. No, you totally would. But this is completely worth it.”

Belatedly, Lance realizes he should move his arm. Everyone here knows they’re not dating. It should be awkward… but Keith practically has his head on Lance’s shoulder. And they’re already sharing one blanket. What’s the harm?

Lance has the upper hand here, too. He smiles into the darkness and leans down one more time.

“I think the bowl cut is a look. You could pull it off now,” he says right into Keith’s ear.

“It’s kind of what you have now,” Keith replies, to which Lance gasps.

“Shut up!” Pidge interrupts. “I wanna know what the dog’s birthday wish is!”

Keith punches Lance again and they quiet down. Lance doesn’t move his arm, and Keith doesn’t say anything about it.

The dog dies, by the way. It’s very emotional. Lance may or may not have cried into Keith’s hair, and Keith may or may not have scoffed before squeezing Lance’s knee in an awkward show of comfort. Later, when the movie ends, they’re all stunned into silence by the last shot of the adult narrator kneeling in front of a small stone grave, wedging a single birthday candle into the dirt.

“ _Happy birthday, Fido_ ,” he says, placing a faded Polaroid of Baby Keith and Fido on the stone. The shot fades out and credits roll.

When Lance looks down for Keith’s reaction, he’s fast asleep, nose pressed into the fabric of Lance’s pajama shirt and body curled up into itself. Lance’s breath catches; Keith looks so calm, breathing deeply with his hand tucked under his chin and against Lance’s chest.

“Keith—” Allura starts, but Lance shushes her. The rest of the group blink warily as Matt brings the lights back up. “Oh my gosh. That’s adorable.”

Hunk snaps another photo before Lance can put up his middle finger to render it unusable on social media.

“This is too cute. Lance, you look pissed off, but Keith is too cute.”

“Post it, post it,” Pidge urges.

With a devious smile, he does.

@HunkGarrettVoltron – someone didn’t find out what the dog’s birthday wish is and someone else isn’t too happy about it!

“He’s gonna hate you,” Lance hisses.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Hunk says. “I sent the photo to you, too.”

Lance doesn’t want to read into that. He can’t. So instead, he delicately extracts himself from Keith, resting his head on the cushion and tucking the blanket around him. Surprisingly, he barely stirs.

“Should we wake him?” Allura asks.

“Nah,” Lance says. “He said he had a long day before this. And week. Maybe month.”

“If you say so.”

Allura, Pidge, and Matt say their goodbyes and leave Hunk and Lance to the mess. Hunk hums as he hands plates to Lance to dry. In the middle of a hummed duet of “Crystal Venom,” Keith pads into the kitchen.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.  

“You’re okay, Grumpy,” Lance says. “You conked out and we didn’t wanna wake you up. You can use the pull-out sofa bed in the third room if you want.”

“No, I should go home.” He shifts uncomfortably, watching Hunk dump inedible leftovers into the overflowing trash can. “Um, thank you, by the way. For inviting me.”

“I think it’s protocol to bring your fake boyfriend to movie nights,” Lance says.

Keith rolls his eyes and Baby Keith flashes into Lance’s mind. He really was cute. He’s cute like this, too.

“Whatever. Thanks.”

Keith changes, leaving Lance’s pajamas on his bed, and heads to the door. Lance follows him and opens it, leaning on the frame as Keith lingers outside.

“By the way,” Keith says, the ghost of a sleepy smile on his lips. “You’re a fast learner.”

“I—what?” Lance stutters.

“But I guess we still need to work on some things.” He steps forward, back into Lance’s space, places a hand on his chest. Lance swears to God he sees Keith’s gaze flit down to his lips. Just for a second. His breath stutters, and he knows Keith can feel it. “Point for me. See you soon, Lance.”

And then he’s gone, sauntering down the hallway and into the stairwell. With a deep, frustrated sigh, Lance shuts the door and bangs his forehead against it. Dammit. He _never_ has the upper hand. He should stop fooling himself into thinking he does.

Before bed, he checks his phone in a vain attempt to put Keith out of his mind, only to find his mentions filled with him.

@hunksorangeheadband -- @HunkGarrettVoltron THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN

@vvoltron I’d like to thank not only hunk garrett but GOD for these pictures. i’m simultaneously filled with love and reminded of my own loneliness

Yeah, Lance can fucking relate to that one.

He rolls over, makes sure to put his phone far away from him, and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

. . .

 

_The pressure on his hip is almost unbearable. Five points, one smoothing his skin in slow circles. Lance’s gaze follows the line from the hand there up Keith’s arm, past his shoulder, his neck, and to those eyes. A flash of dark and mirth under lowered eyelids. Lance’s heart thuds so fast and hard, he wonders if Keith can hear it._

_Somewhere, vaguely, Lance recognizes he has three minutes until he should be onstage. The roar of the crowd is dull in his ears compared to the way Keith breathes steadily in his ear. Close. Was he this close before?_

_“Point for me,” Keith rumbles. Lance shivers as his voice curls down his spine, and Keith smirks. “Another point.”_

_He digs his thumb into Lance’s hip, and Lance’s own hand flies to cover it up. He has two minutes. Two minutes. But the smell of vanilla and cologne surrounds him, and he wants that. He wants whatever Keith is willing to give him, and right now—_

_“Mm, steady.” Keith smirks, and Lance realizes his own hand is bruising crescent shapes into Keith’s. “That’s another for me.”_

_What will it take to win? Every time he tries, Keith knows exactly how to push back. How to catch him by the hip, how to step into his space. How to tilt his angled jaw just that way, framed by a lock of disheveled hair, and—and catch Lance’s lower lip between his teeth._

_Holy shit. Keith’s kissing him. Like a kettle on a stove boiling over. Like toppling carelessly over the edge of a waterfall. Like Lance has been waiting for this._

_“Point…” Keith tugs, not-so-gently, as his hand slides out from underneath Lance’s and to his stomach. “Point.” Lance can feel it, the low whine at the back of his throat, as Keith recaptures his mouth. Slow, dirty, running his tongue along Lance’s bruised lower lip and ricocheting more shivers through his whole body. Keith’s kissing him. “Point.”_

_Abruptly—or maybe not so abruptly. Maybe this is his master plan—Keith replaces both hands on Lance’s hips and drags him_ closer. _He doesn’t break the kiss. Lance can’t believe they’re kissing, and the steady thrum of chanting voices grows steadily louder as the seconds tick by. One minute._

_“Point,” Keith moans. In the background, fans cheer,”Vol-tron! Vol-tron!” and Lance almost twitches out of his skin when Keith rolls their hips together. “Come on, Lance. You’re a fast learner. Touch me. Touch me.”_

_“And you’re on, Voltron! Go time, go time, go time.”_

_“You can kiss better than that, Loverboy.”_

_“Vol-tron. Vol-tron!”_

_“Point for me.”_

_“Go, go, go!”_

_“Vol-tron!”_

_Lance breaks away. Surely, there’s someone with his trusty blue guitar around here, ready to hand it over so Lance can rush onstage. The screams drum against his skull, disbanding from its uniform chant into something he can’t understand. But there’s no one. They’re alone. Thirty seconds past, and no one yells at him for being late._

_And here’s Keith, kissing him again. This time, Lance reciprocates. The roar fades, and all he can hear is Keith as his breath hitches. There, a crack in his defenses. Maybe, if Lance—_

_“Touch me,” Keith says, and he punctuates his demand with another roll of his hips. Lance gasps into his mouth. He gasps, he gasps—_

He gasps, inhaling so deep it burns his throat. His eyes fly open as he pushes himself up on his elbows.

He’s not at a venue. He’s in bed, the sheets kicked halfway to the floor. And Keith isn’t here, though Lance can still practically feel him on his lips. And his hips, because he—fuck. Fuck! Did Lance really just—did that happen? Is he fifteen again?

He looks around blearily for his alarm clock. Not even three in the morning. He’s only slept for, like, an hour, maybe two, and this is _not_ a welcome interruption.

He drops back down onto his stomach and groans loudly into his pillow. He needs to go back to sleep. He needs to forget. He needs to block out the memory of what Keith’s moans might sound like, what he might kiss like. Fuck. _Fuck._ Lance rolls onto his back and desperately ignores the heat still thrumming through his veins.

Well, there goes another fucking point for Keith, and the guy isn’t even here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance just never catches a break, does he? Eheh, we're getting to some of my favorite parts now. 
> 
> Thank you so incredibly much for reading <3 Kudos and comments are motivating as hell. Follow and talk to me on my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/), and reblog the post for this chapter [here](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/184185290916/love-song-in-c-minor-chapter-five)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just a kiss,” Keith says. And there it is. Out in the air. The topic.
> 
> Lance shrugs, hoping it portrays the same cool Over It vibe Keith’s giving off. 
> 
> “Uh huh. Just a kiss. I’ve kissed loads of girls. I know how this works,” he says, kicking his feet out and lounging. Be chill, Lance. It’s just a kiss!
> 
> “I don’t doubt you. But…” Keith narrows his eyes, tilts his chin. “It’s still making you nervous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said we would be getting into my favorite tropes (not that we haven't already passed some of them), and this chapter definitely has some of them. I'm weirdly nervous posting this one, because I've spent so long reading my favorite scenes over and over, but if I edit it any more I'll actually die. 
> 
> Also, yay, I'm updating within the month again! The semester is over, I've posted my [Klance Pinefest fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590224/chapters/44070982), and now I have the time to write this fic. The next update will be within two weeks, because I'm _really_ excited about Chapter Seven. 
> 
> This chapter is a whopping 14k, and I am very pleased about that. I hope you are, too!

The next time Lance sees Keith is decidedly the last place he ever wants to see anyone: called into a Galra boardroom and in the presence of Sendak, Kolivan, Coran, and Allura. Oh, and Axca.

He’d woken up at five in the morning, barely grabbed one of Pidge’s energy bars, and hauled off to whatever Coran put in the schedule. Now, it’s nearing one in the afternoon, and none of them have had time to eat a proper meal besides the cupcakes Coran sneaked into the Galra car. Keith looks no better, slumped over in his chair with his chin in his hand and eyes staring listlessly at the mahogany table.

Lance looks at him for all of a second before training his eyes on the table, too. He can already feel the tips of his ears burning, the memory of that stupid dream knocking against his brain. No, bad brain! Think about the meeting.

“Pleasure to see you boys again. And Allura, of course,” Sendak says, the deep rumble of his voice poking at Lance’s tired mind.

“Pleasure,” Allura replies. Unlike Lance and Keith, she sits up straight, her hands folded in front of her and her expression determined in a way that spells dangerous. Allura’s so good at this. Everyone needs an Allura in their life.

“Any reason we’re here today, Sendak?” Coran asks, twiddling his mustache.

“Of course,” Sendak says. “We wanted to discuss what was going on with our little ‘Klance’ experiment. Or ‘Laith’. Or…it doesn’t matter.”

“Definitely Klance,” Lance mumbles, to which Keith sticks out his tongue. Lance catches the tail-end of the movement and looks sharply away again.

“We crunched some numbers to see what’s happened in the last month, and the results have been astounding,” Sendak continues as if Lance hadn’t said a word. Axca spreads out some papers again and Lance doesn’t bother reading them. He knows what’s been going on. He has social media.

Coran, Kolivan, and Allura peer at the papers, the evidence of the popularity of Hollywood’s New Darling Couple.

“As you can see, the plan is working better than we expected. ‘The Hunted’ skyrocketing to top ten in the charts in its first week is an indicator by itself. You’ve all reached the most social media interactions you’ve had in your meager histories. In addition, each little outing brings with it fresh news and attention.”

“That’s a very good thing,” Coran says, but Allura has no reaction. She squints at Sendak and picks up another paper.

“So that’s it?” Lance asks. “Me and Keith make a super attractive couple. Can I take a nap now?”

“Always the little spitfire, you are, Lance,” Sendak chuckles. It sends a chill through Lance’s body. “No. We have something a little different in mind.”

Great. Last time Sendak had something a little different in mind it winded up being a fucking fake relationship.

“How was mini-golf, Keith?” Sendak asks.

“Fine,” Keith says.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

And at that, Lance finally perks up. This can’t be good.

“The media loved Keith and Lance at the beginning. They ate it up like candy and it was the hottest topic amongst several demographics. The evidence shows in the single release, but now? Interest is stagnating a little.”

Yeah, okay, but doesn’t that happen with every relationship?

“Mini-golf was just fine. That’s all. But there’s still another single, an album, and a film premiere. Do you suppose this will hold until _Love on Daibazaal_ premieres, Kolivan?”

Kolivan remains stone-faced, but Lance can imagine the gears turning behind those big ears of his.

“What are you saying, Sendak?” Allura asks. Sendak’s caterpillar eyebrows pique like he forgot she’s there.

“I’m suggesting we kick it up a notch,” he says.

“How?” Lance asks. “Mini-golf is my best move! I can’t do anything more than that.”

Sendak laughs and shakes his head. “You’re not listening as usual, Lance. We’re missing opportunities to ride this wave while it’s here!”

“And what do you suggest, then?” Allura pushes, leaning forward slightly in a way that would be intimidating to anyone but Sendak.

“We bring the relationship out of the shadows and into the spotlight. Couple interviews, photoshoots, the like. By doing this, interest is renewed, and consumers have all the content they could ever want.”

“Okay, but I’ve never seen a couple do that. Aren’t we going for realistic here?” Lance asks.

“Ah, but you two are not just any couple. You’re two celebrities. People crave celebrities. And celebrity couples get a special pass on any sort of realism, especially when there are products to promote. Axca?” Axca nods and presses a button on the laptop before her. Kolivan and Keith’s phones ping. “The new schedules have just been sent out. There will only be a few dates, but it will be enough to pique interest.”

Allura grabs Coran’s phone before he can and flips through the schedule. Her eyes widen as she goes.

“Sendak, this is too busy! Lance barely has any time for this, much less for the band or himself.”

“Allura, can I ask you a question?” Sendak grumbles. “Why are you here?”

“Because this is my band, too. Anything you can say in front of Lance, you can say in front of me,” she says. Her voice doesn’t wave once. What’s that? Raw fucking talent and confidence. 

Sendak relents.

“How is the schedule for you, Kolivan?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” Kolivan says. Keith only reacts with a frown.

“Good, good. Now, I trust you all—”

“Sir,” Axca interrupts. “There’s one more thing on the agenda.”

Sendak peers at the computer screen. A smile overtakes his thin lips. Oh, god, what could this be?

“You’re right. One more thing, boys, before I let you go. There’s also been one thing missing from this relationship and its hype. Normally, I wouldn’t put this on anyone, but with interest waning, I’ll suggest it would be a good idea to introduce a more…physical aspect to your public relationship.”

Hold on. Wait. A _what?_

“Er, could you repeat that, Sendak? I think my ears must be full of waxed cotton,” Coran says.

“No, no, you heard right. A physical aspect. I think you two can figure out what that means by yourselves. It shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

“Uh, _yes_.” Lance lets his chair fall to all fours, a small panic creeping into his chest. “First of all, I don’t know what you mean. Second of all, what the fuck?”

Surely, he’s not talking about—

“Kissing, Lance. I mean kissing. I think you know well enough what that is,” Sendak growls. “This isn’t difficult. Keith is America’s rom com sweetheart, and you’re, well, you. I don’t think I need to remind you.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Lance,” Sendak warns with a bite in his voice. “We’re done here. Axca, I request my usual coffee after this headache of a meeting.”

“A venti hazelnut Frappuccino with extra whipped cream, sir?” Axca asks as she shuts her laptop. To her credit, at least, she frowns sympathetically Lance and Allura’s way.

“Yes. Don’t forget the sprinkles.”

“Hold up! We’re not done!”

“Lance—” Allura tries to say.

“Oh, would you look at the time! Hunk and Pidge requested take-out before their favorite shop closes. Let’s be on our way!” Coran cries, tugging Lance along with him as he hops out of his chair.

Lance tries to get another word in, but he catches sight of Keith just shaking his head. Ugh. Ugh! Is Keith really not going to say a single fucking word? Is he—what does _he_ think about this?

Before Lance can formulate another thought, Coran drags him out of the room, Allura at their heels.

“I’m sorry,” Allura says, but it’s not her fault. It never is. And she doesn’t know about the sirens blaring in Lance’s mind, she couldn’t.

It’s not about the schedule. It’s not even about Sendak’s snide remarks. He can handle that—he doesn’t have any other choice.

But holy _shit._ He’d tried to push it out of his mind, but now it’s _inevitable._

Fuck Sendak. Fuck Sendak to hell.

 

. . .

 

“Coran, tell me you’re taking us back home,” Hunk whines, letting his head fall onto Lance’s shoulder.

“Right you are! Just a little detour to the Chinese place you love so much, and we’ll be on our way back,” Coran says just as his phone begins ringing. “The Coran-ager speaking. Ah, yes! I see…”

Coran fades into the background until the only things registering in Lance’s mind are Hunk’s big head and the slow crawl of the car’s engine in the afternoon Los Angeles traffic. Lance is tired. Everyone is tired.

“I’m gonna go home, I’m gonna call Shay and confess my feelings to her, and then I’m gonna die on the floor of my room. Not even gonna make it to the bed. Just die a few feet away. It’s the perfect metaphor,” Hunk sighs. Lance pats his head sympathetically.

“You know it’s bad when Hunk starts doing existential humor,” Pidge grumbles from where she’s tucked into Allura’s side.

“You’re going to be fine, Hunk,” Allura says. “But I do like the part about confessing your feelings to Shay.”

“What? Who said that? I didn’t say that,” Hunk says.

“You said it, buddy. I support your decision,” Lance says.

“Nope. It’s not happening. I’ll live until tomorrow.”

Lance’s phone vibrates against his thigh. When he wiggles it out of his pocket, his heart honestly skips a fucking beat, but the text is neutral. Still, it’s the first time Keith’s texted him since the fateful news.

From Keith. _[Attached link: www.doesthedogdie.com. Does the dog die in_ A Dog’s Birthday Wish? _Yes.]_

“Is that Keith?” Hunk asks. “Tell him he’s invited to my funeral. There will be a taco bar.”

“No one’s dying anytime soon, Hunky. He’s just sour we watched his shitty movie,” Lance mumbles as he stares at the message. What does he say to that?

“Heh. It was pretty bad.”

“The dog fucking died!” Pidge cries.

“There, there. Just sleep, Pidge,” Allura says, smoothing Pidge’s hair.

“Speaking of Keith,” Hunk says, sitting up enough that his whole weight isn’t pressing Lance into the car door. “What was that meeting about yesterday?”

“Nothing,” Lance says quickly before Allura can answer. “Just talk about the fake relationship thing. It’s all good.”

Totally nothing. Totally didn’t talk about kissing. Kissing Keith. Lance has to kiss Keith.

“But Lance—”

“Allura! Hey, did you ever transcribe that solo you were noodling around on the other day?” Lance asks.

Allura frowns instead of replying. She sees through all of Lance’s tricks. She knows exactly what Lance is thinking: Sendak gave them more obligations. But, more importantly, he wants them to kiss. It’s taken up probably 85 percent of Lance’s brain space this past day.

More buzzing. Lance looks down in confusion to find _The Mothership_ flashing on screen.

“Are you gonna get that?” Hunk asks.

Nope. He lets it ring on its own, and when the call ends he opens Keith’s conversation. Something…neutral.

From Lance. _next time we’re watching the prom date vampire movie. does the dog die in that one too???_

“Oh, by the way, Lance!” Coran pipes up, twisting around in the front seat. “Did you check your schedule for tonight?”

“No. I was hoping I’d join Hunk in his dying party,” Lance says.

“Not so fast! You’re with Keith tonight.”

Lance groans and drops his head to his chest, praying for death. Or a taco bar.

From Keith. _There’s a sad lack of dogs in that one. BTW, drive to my house tonight. One less stop for the chauffeur._

From Lance. _is that?? an acronym??_

From Keith. _You’re insufferable._

“Coran, I’m not sure—”

“I’m good, Allura,” Lance interrupts, sending her a reassuring smile. “Just bring me some of that Chinese food and I’m ready to go again. I’m afraid you’re dying alone tonight, Hunk.”

“That’s all good. I might bring Shay around anyway if you’re gone.”

“You better. I like her a lot.”

Hunk nods and resettles against Lance. Lance glances over to find Pidge fast asleep cuddling Allura. It’s a cute scene. He takes a picture, but he keeps it to himself. Whether it’ll be blackmail or just an adorable photo of Pidge to show Matt, he’s not sure yet.

But fuck Sendak, because Lance desperately wants to sleep, too.

 

. . .

 

Maybe fuck Sendak to Europe. Or Texas. Or San Diego. Maybe not so far as hell.

If it weren’t for Sendak, Lance probably wouldn’t be sitting on Keith’s couch taking adorable photos of his space wolf for Snapchat. And Keith probably wouldn’t be sitting on the other side of Kosmo, throwing up peace signs for the camera.

They’re still in suits. They’re only plain, picked out of the backs of their closets for a last minute gig at a party Sendak put on the New and Improved Schedule. It was some sort of pat on the back for someone on the Galra repertoire, but it made a good impression to be there, and fans on the street screamed as they walked past into the venue.

The entire time, though, Lance couldn’t help his racing heart and sweaty palms. Even when Keith complained by not-so-discretely wiping his hands on Lance’s shirt, Lance couldn’t stop _thinking_. Thinking, of course, about when Keith would say fuck it all! And kiss him.

Because that’s what they’re supposed to be doing. Kissing. Lance doesn’t think he’s been so nervous about a kiss since he took a girl to the state fair in seventh grade. And he’s kissed a lot of girls since then, but he hasn’t, you know…

“Hey,” Lance says, desperate to come up with anything that’ll take his mind off his impending doom. “Where’s Shiro and Adam?”

“Date night. ‘Cause they’re a boring couple that has date nights,” Keith says. He puts up one last peace sign, then shrugs off his suit jacket and tosses it to the armchair adjacent to the couch.

“That’s not boring. My parents have been married for thirty years and they still have date nights. It’s essential for a healthy relationship, Keith.”

“Wow, you sound like Shiro. Gross.” He stands up and rolls his shoulders. No florals or loud colors on his button-up today. Just black cotton perfectly tailored to his broad chest.

No. Nope. Not going there.

Keith heads for the kitchen and Kosmo goes scampering after him, leaving Lance alone in the living room. He lets his head fall back and focuses on the upside-down picture frames and action figurines. Wolverine looks funny in this direction, like the tips of his mask wings are holding him up in a hand stand.

He hears Keith say something indistinct to Kosmo, and another memory from the gig flashes into Lance’s mind.

Keith, his hand under Lance’s suit jacket and fitted around his waist. Lance, an arm over Keith’s shoulder and chatting amicably to someone he should probably recognize but definitely doesn’t.

“ _Congratulations on the new music, McClain_ ,” the woman says just as someone else approaches her. She’s whisked away, leaving Lance and Keith alone amongst the crowd.

Lance sighs with relief at the reprieve in talking. She smelled distinctly of onions, and he turns to tell Keith just that when Keith goes on his tip-toes and beats him to the punch.

“ _She fucking reeked_ ,” he whispers. Lance wants to laugh, but the way Keith mumbles it into the crook of his jaw and neck leaves him rigid, mouth halfway open in a reply that won’t come out. Lance could kiss him. Right there. Sendak would want them to. Keith pulls back and studies his pained expression. “ _Are you nervous?_ ”

“ _N-no_ ,” Lance says, and he earns the honorary ribbon for Biggest Fucking Liar of the Year Award.

 A dog bowl clatters to the ground, and Keith comes back a second later. The top two buttons of his shirt are now undone, and his hair’s out of the ponytail, loosely framing his face.

This feels awkward. It’s awkward, right? Because Lance’s thought about kissing Keith before, but now Sendak’s mentioned it to both of them, and Lance can still think about _nothing else_.

Keith gives him this weird look as he plops onto the couch again, kicking his boots off. Lance feels incredibly overdressed now. He imagines Keith’s lips against his, how they might be. _Like a kettle on a stove boiling over. Like toppling carelessly over the edge of a waterfall._

“Are you okay?” Keith asks.

“Yeah! Just fine. Peachy. Uh, maybe a little ill from all those tapas,” Lance stutters. How will Keith kiss? Hard and without mercy, like boxing, or gently, like his expression when he sleeps?

“Seriously, you’re freaking me out. Do you want water or something?”

How can Keith be so calm about this? Lance is about to have a mild anxiety breakdown and Keith’s thinking about goddamn hydration. Which is important, of course, but—you know what? Never mind. Lance needs to get over himself.

“Water. Sure, yeah,” he says. “I can, um, get it myself.”

Lance stands up and thanks God his legs don’t feel as liquified as his brain does.

“You don’t know where anything is,” Keith says, following him into the kitchen. He watches in amusement as Lance tries three different cabinets before saying, “Third from the left on the top row.”

Lance pouts but takes Keith’s word, opening the cabinet third from the left and choosing a small glass cup. When he closes the door and turns around, though, he finds himself bracketed between Keith’s arms. Vanilla. A hint of something woody. Just inches from his face.

“You’re a little jumpy,” Keith says, as nonchalant as ever, like he isn’t currently holding Lance hostage against the counter.

“Too much soda,” Lance squeaks. “Sugar rush, you know the drill. I’m about to crash. I should head home.”

“Hmm,” is all Keith replies. He cocks his head, studying Lance’s probably terrified expression. Lance isn’t the actor here. He doesn’t know how to remain impassive, much less kiss in public. “You’re being a little dramatic.”

“I’ve never been dramatic in my entire life,” Lance scoffs. He attempts to edge to the left and Keith withdraws, letting Lance slip away.

“That’s a lie.”

They sit back down on the couch and Lance sets his glass on the coffee table untouched. The only sounds that accompany them are the faint whir of a fan, the rustle of Kosmo’s food bowl, and the frantic pounding of Lance’s heart.

It’s a lie.

“It’s just a kiss,” Keith says. And there it is. Out in the air. The topic.

Lance shrugs, hoping it portrays the same cool Over It vibe Keith’s giving off.

“Uh huh. Just a kiss. I’ve kissed loads of girls. I know how this works,” he says, kicking his feet out and lounging. Be chill, Lance. It’s just a kiss!

“I don’t doubt you. But…” Keith narrows his eyes, tilts his chin. “It’s still making you nervous.”

“Well, why shouldn’t it?!” Lance bursts. He runs his hands through his carefully arranged hair. “I’m not—you do this, like, all the time. It’s your job. But me, my job, it’s not—this isn’t—”

“Lance,” Keith cuts him off. Somewhere between when they sat down and now he’s scooted closer, and he places a hand on Lance’s knee. Touch. “Like I said, it’s just a kiss.”

“Yeah. Totally,” Lance gulps. “Just a kiss.”

“That’s all.”

In lieu of a response, Lance forces himself to take a deep breath. Don’t look at him now, or you’ll break down again.

“Lance,” Keith says, and Lance’s eyes betray him and look at Keith. “It’ll probably just happen once or twice in front of some cameras. We kiss, your dramatic ass realizes it’s nothing, and you move on.”

“Uh huh. Except—” Lance clamps his mouth shut. Abort, abort!

“…Lance,” Keith repeats. He leans forward, searching Lance’s face. “Have you ever kissed a boy before?”

“Funny story! You know, he, in the alley, uh, no. No, I haven’t,” Lance says.

“Oh. _Oh._ ”

Yeah, oh.

“I was sort of in the closet,” Lance whispers. “And I was sort of hoping it wouldn’t be…you know…”

“In front of cameras,” Keith finishes for him. “Okay. That makes sense.”

Keith leans back again, out of Lance’s space, and Lance lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Glad to get that off my chest,” he says. And it was only mildly embarrassing.

Keith doesn’t reply. When Lance glances up, he finds him still staring, a curiously blank expression on his face.

“We could practice,” he offers, voice so soft Lance almost doesn’t catch it.

“…What?”

“Don’t be stupid. We could practice beforehand, so when we do have to kiss in public, your face doesn’t look like the red tomato it is now.”

What’s that sizzling sound? That would be Lance’s brain short-circuiting, because Keith just suggested they kiss right now. To practice.

“We don’t have to,” Keith amends quickly, crossing his arms. “I’m only suggesting it so you won’t embarrass yourself like you always do—”

“For practice?”

Keith drops his frown.

“Yeah,” he says. “Only if you want to.”

Holy shit, does Lance want to. Does Lance _want to._

“Yes,” he replies before he can stop himself. “That’s, um. I think Sendak would think that’s a good idea.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but he scoots close again nonetheless.

“Don’t ever mention Sendak again,” he says, shifting his position so they’re facing each other.

“Noted,” Lance breathes.

Okay, so he didn’t expect this to be so inorganic. He thought it would be exactly how Keith described, and Lance would be left wanting more in his own time. Not that on this day in the New and Improved Schedule, Keith and Lance will practice kissing so they don’t look like fools in public.

But there’s no room to think right now. Keith tentatively places his hands on Lance’s shoulders. It’s nothing new, but the touch burns through the fabric.

“You should make all your mistakes here,” Keith says. He slides his hands up to Lance’s bare neck and tugs him gently forward. “That way, you won’t make them out there.”

Keith dips down and their noses brush, but neither of them close their eyes. Lance’s heart jackhammers in his chest as he takes in Keith’s fanning eyelashes, an old acne scar dusting the bridge of his nose.

“Relax,” Keith says. “Put your hands on my hips.”

And that is _way_ too reminiscent of _touch me._

Lance watches, wide-eyed, as Keith’s eyes flutter shut. He does as instructed, placing his hands on the curve of Keith’s hips. He should close his eyes, too. _Get a grip, Lance_ , he chastises himself inwardly. _It’s like you’ve never kissed anyone before_.

The thought disappears just as quickly as it comes, however, because Keith’s pressing his lips to Lance’s, and they’re kissing.

It stops as soon as it starts. Keith barely ghosts their lips and they part, Keith’s hands leaving his neck and dropping down to his legs.

“How was that?” Keith asks.

“It was—”

“Don’t answer. That wasn’t anything.”

And he swoops in again, this time in earnest.

It’s like fireworks. Some wonky as hell fireworks, sure, and a completely different show than Plaxum or anyone other girl Lance’s ever kissed, but fireworks. Keith’s hips are broader, his lips soft and rough at the same time. It’s like the fireworks are aimed not at the sky but right at Lance himself.

“Work with me,” Keith mumbles against Lance, and Lance tightens his grip.

They begin moving in tandem, Keith pushing and Lance letting himself be pushed. Keith leads them, tilting his head a little, slotting their lips together, and, _there_. That’s good. That’s mind-bogglingly good. He opens his mouth just a little. Lance takes it as his cue to follow, and it’s so much more than the first one.

Keith breaks it off, leaning his forehead against Lance’s and smirking when Lance chases the touch.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low and gravelly.

“Just a little. You can help with that, though,” Lance replies.                                                                       

Keith raises an eyebrow, searches Lance’s eyes for just a moment, and dives back in.

Somewhere along the way, Keith’s hands find the planes of Lance’s back, pulling him close until they’re flush against each other. Somewhere else, he tugs at Lance’s sleeves until Lance lets him shuck off the suit jacket, never breaking the kiss once. And after all this, Keith bites down on Lance’s lower lip, eliciting the moan he’s desperately been trying to hold back this whole time.

A jangling noise that might be Kosmo’s collar pokes at Lance’s attention, but Keith doesn’t pay it any mind, so Lance won’t either. Keith’s kind of insatiable, actually. Even as the front door creaks open and two voices talk indecipherably in the foyer, he won’t stop kissing Lance.

“…I said the contract wasn’t working, but she wouldn’t listen to me and signed it anyway,” one of the voices says as their steps come closer. “I try to be as helpful as I can, but—whoa!”

Keith and Lance spring apart to opposite ends of the couch, chests pounding and lips red. There, in the entrance of the living room, stand the two men from the photographs, staring with amused and shocked expressions.

“Hey, Keith,” the one with a shock of white hair and an all-too-familiar smirk says. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone over.”

“Shiro!” Keith growls.

“Well, are you going to introduce us to your guest?”

“Shiro and Adam, this is Lance. Lance, this is Shiro and Adam,” Keith huffs.

“Hello!” Adam waves. Lance waves awkwardly back. “You’re the fake boyfriend we’re always hearing about, right?”

Uh. What?

“Lance was just about to leave! Come on,” Keith says. Lance lets himself be pulled off the couch, only barely snagging his jacket before he’s dragged past Shiro and Adam and into the foyer.

“What? No conversation?” he whispers as he puts his jacket back on.

“Not after we were just making out on the fucking couch,” Keith hisses.

Oh, _right._ Something giddy blossoms in Lance’s chest. They made out, didn’t they?

“You make an interesting point, but I’m holding this over you.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Just go.”

Lance grabs his keys and wallet from the little table in the foyer and lets himself be pushed out the door. He pauses, though, and faces Keith still in the doorway.

“Was I good?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“Sure, whatever,” Keith says again. Lance tries to hide the disappointment in his sigh, but Keith catches it. “Just…drive safe.”

“Okay,” Lance says, backing away. He can’t believe it. They made out. They had a proper make-out session. “I will.”

Keith runs his fingers through his messy hair, huffs, and throws a smile, maybe genuine, Lance’s way. Then the door slams shut, and Lance is alone on Keith’s driveway.

 

. . .

 

Lance presses ignore on a call from _The Mothership_ and looks forlornly at the blank screen. No new texts. He shakes his head and pockets the device; usually, he's relieved to see a blank screen. It's whatever.

It's just. He's been thinking. It's weird, because he hasn't been so excited about a kiss since Plaxum. It must've been the time (close to midnight), the place (a couch is always a great place to make out with someone), and the excitement of the interruption (sorry, Shiro and Adam). But Keith said they could practice, and then they just, you know—

"Lance?" Allura asks, wiggling her fingers in front of his face. "Are you alright?"

"Huh?" Lance blinks and returns to the setting before him. They're somewhere in Galra HQ waiting for some kind of meeting. He can't remember exactly what it's about, but if he takes a stab he can guess the promo campaign for _The Return_. "Oh! I'm all good."

Lance leans back against the office chair and drops his feet onto the table to Coran’s only slight annoyance.

"How much sleep did you get last night?" Allura asks.

"How much sleep did Pidge get? I vaguely remember a Snapchat notification as one of my counting sheep."

Pidge plants her hands on the table and leans so far forward her chin almost touches it, squinting at Lance across from her.

"Hmm," she says. That's all.

"No, that's not Lance's tired face," Hunk says. "That's his wistful daydreaming face. Whatcha thinkin' about, Lance?"

"Standing fifteen feet from Beyoncé as we both walked down the aisle at the Grammy's," Lance says. He fights the urge to check his phone again. Lance sent a text early this morning about whether Lance should drive over again tonight, but no response yet. It's only a little unusual.

"That was a good moment," Hunk says, now wistful himself. Still, he eyes Lance warily, so brief Lance wouldn't know to catch it if he hadn't met Hunk in elementary school.

It's just. It's _just_. Keith was good. Keith was, like, really good. Sue Lance if he looks wistful! Keith pushed his jacket off. Lance replays it on loop in his mind's eye, imagines all the new touches in his archive. He thought one kiss would satisfy his nerves. Now, he's pretty sure two will do the trick.

A sharp vibration on his thigh. As the doors to the board room fling open and people in suits file in, Lance whips out his phone. His chest constricts at the screen.

From Keith. _Yeah_.

Hm. Okay. A slightly familiar voice begins talking, and Lance looks up to see Galra goonies. Boring conversations imminent.

"Lance," they warn, and Lance quickly drops his feet to the floor and flashes a dazzling smile.

As everyone dive into the conversation at hand, Lance rubs his thumb over the smooth glass of the phone. Allura can handle this stuff, can't she?

"Rehearsals start on Monday for the tour..." Allura says. Her voice fades into the mess. Lance glances quickly around and back down to the phone hiding in his lap.

From Lance. _boring meeting. What about u?_

“…  mock stage will be ready two weeks before the first tour date in London, giving a little time to…”

So not about the promo campaign, then. Just tour. Lance fights the urge to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

From Keith. _Same_. _Schedule for filming at the end of the month_.

Lance bites back a grin and replies immediately.

From Lance. _BOORING. Send me a pic of Kosmo to make up for it._

From Keith. _Ha. Fine, ok._

From Keith. _[Attached image: Kosmo rolling around in the park, the ball thrower in his mouth sans ball._

"...rehearsals suspended the release day of ‘Reunion’?"

"Seeing as you're in New York City at the time, yes."

"Aw, yeah. For Slav's show, right? And Luxia?"

The goon nods. Lance wrinkles his nose and looks again at the picture of Kosmo. It's so unbearably cute. Lance would much rather be cuddling Kosmo. He saves it to his camera roll.

From Lance. _aw he takes after his owner._

From Keith. _I just physically frowned and Kolivan asked me if I have an attitude problem. No more jokes._

From Lance. _well have u brought a knife to set recently?_

From Keith. _Lance_

From Lance. _yeessss??? :)_

From The Coran-ager. _:( :( :( :( :D :(_

Lance jerks up, eyes snapping to Coran who waves his phone.

Curse Pidge for teaching Coran emojis.

Lance sighs and goes to put the phone away, but one last buzz breaks his fragile resolve.

From Keith. _Does a Swiss army knife count? I may have left one in LOD's makeup trailer._

It's Lance's turn to snicker out loud, drawing the ire of every single occupant at the table.

"Is Slav funny to you, Lance?" a goon asks.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, if you think about it. He's really bendy and he says fucking weird things," Lance says.

The goon levels him with a supremely agonized expression.

"Um. Sorry. Slav is great...in every reality," Lance mumbles. His phone vibrates with another text, but he reluctantly puts it away.

Until five minutes later, when his resolve breaks and everything is just so boring he can't take it anymore.

From Keith. _[Attached: Kosmo's panting smile next to Keith, who stares at camera with a pinched frown._

Oh, no. He saves that one, too.

From Lance. _would it kill u to smile in one picture? everything about this is perfect otherwise. boredom alleviated._

From Keith. _Physically, no. Emotionally, imagine the toll_.

"...I think we might take a quick break," a goon says. Lance glances up to find them all staring at him again. "Someone's a little distracted."

"Distracted is my middle name," Lance says with a wink. Wrong move. She grimaces.

"It's a good thing you're so popular," she grumbles, pushing away from the table and standing up. "Five minutes."

Whatever. It gives Lance the chance to stare at Keith's dog selfie for a blissful five minutes.

"You want to go find pudding?" Hunk asks, prodding Lance's shoulder with his index finger.

"Pretty sure there's no pudding in Galra HQ, Hunk," Lance says absently as he taps out a reply.

From Lance. _ur a model one minute, and the next u can't pose with ur beautiful dog without looking constipated._

From Keith. _You're right. Kosmo should take my job_

From Lance. _if kosmo had a dog instagram he would earn more than u in one post!_

Lance gasps out loud. Holy shit. Kosmo needs a dog Instagram.

"Hunk," Lance says out loud, grabbing Hunk by the shoulders. "Kosmo needs a doggy Instagram."

"Uuh..." Hunk furrows his brows in concern. "Kosmo?"

"Keith's enormous beautiful dog. Look at him!" Lance waves the photo on Lance's phone in Hunk's face. "He'll be Internet famous!"

"Oooh. You're texting Keith?" he asks instead of addressing the incredibly important topic of making Kosmo an Instagram.

"Keeiiith!" Pidge singsongs from her chair where she's propped her dirty sneakers on the table and taken out her DS. Lance ignores her.

From Lance. _i've just stumbled upon the greatest idea this side of the planet: kosmo dog instagram._

From Keith. _If I can't manage my own account, how could I manage two?_

From Lance. _oh, that is no problem. i happen to be a VERY big fan of animals on instagram._

It's true. Adorable animals on Instagram are Lance's favorite. He currently enjoys sheep farms and ducks.  

"So, anyway," Hunk says, breaking through Lance's very important line of thought. "Current thoughts on how close the album and tour are?"

"I'm so excited for tour bus bunk beds," Pidge says with a bite of sarcasm. "Can't wait for Lance's hour-long skincare routine and Allura's snoring."

"I do not snore!" Allura gasps.

"Like a goddamn lawnmower." Pidge giggles.

"It's true. Sorry, Allura," Hunk says, but his smile says the opposite. “We don’t have a tour bus in Europe, though.”

From Keith. _I'm not convinced_.

From Lance. _prepare to be amazed_

As the rest of the band keeps talking and spinning in their chairs, Lance opens Instagram.

"Hunk," he interrupts. "Which one? Broody Keith and Kosmo or Kosmo being stupid in a park?"

"What's your goal? They have different meanings," Hunk says very seriously.

"I need to show Keith Kosmo is worthy of a dog Instagram," Lance replies equally seriously.

"Kosmo being stupid," Pidge pipes up. "If you want the likes, you need the awws."

"How could I ever doubt you, Pidgey?"

Lance crops the picture and changes the filter but pauses at the caption.

_@lanceymcclain – i said "he takes after his owner" and keith threatened me_

There, that should do it. Kosmo _and_ a mention of Keith? All the awws and all the likes.

From Lance. _check instagram and learn, babe_

They filter back in. Pidge tucks away her DS and Lance finally, finally puts his phone away after some more jabs in the arm by Hunk. Even as everyone begins talking and pictures are shown of the kind-of-maybe-finalized stage design Lance's lips keep quirking with the reply that awaits him when this dumb long meeting is over.

He's tired. They woke up early and got home late last night. There's only one day off next week during the hellish run-up to the second single release and after that it's nonstop until December. Lance can sometimes barely find it in him to keep it together in the face of what everyone still says about him when his back is turned. Despite all this, he lets himself feel giddy about a cute dog. And a cute boy. One that he’ll see tonight and hopefully kiss in front of some cameras. That’s something to be giddy about, right?

 

. . .

 

Lance hasn’t been to many fashion shows in his life, but Keith’s role as a fashion icon dictates Keith has.

“Rolo’s around here, too,” Keith explains. “He’s not really into the stuff.”

“But you are,” Lance says. He picks up one of Keith’s hands, running a thumb over the leather material of his fingerless gloves. “I didn’t get the memo the dress code was badass with a side of pretentious.”

Keith rolls his eyes, jerking his hand out of Lance’s loose grasp. He looks around instead at the crowd gathered in the lobby of the show, a low, long room painted black and lit with what Lance can only assume are glow sticks thrown into a vat of steroids. Attendees, some Lance recognizes and some he doesn’t, mill around. Cameras, too, pace one end of the room, waiting for everyone to get their picture.

“Is this a contract sort of gig?” Lance asks.

“Old co-star is walking,” he says. Brief, punctuated words.

“Okay…”

The show’s supposed to start in ten minutes. Keith hasn’t really explained what it’s supposed to be about. He didn’t really talk at all in the car on the way over, either. Barely said a word when Lance fixed his bangs as they strolled into the venue.

“Lance!” A smooth voice interrupts his racing mind, and Lance turns around to find Lotor, bleached hair and all, standing in a dark blue suit. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t know I’d be here until a few hours ago,” Lance says. “I think I’m going to dabble in fashion shows, though.”

Lotor eyes him suspiciously and slides his gaze over to Keith, standing to the side with an air of uncertainty.

“I suspect you’re being influenced by fingerless gloves and eyeliner?” Lotor asks.

Lance wraps an arm around Keith’s shoulder, but Keith only tenses more.

“It definitely gets my seal of approval,” Lance says. “Keith, this is Lotor. We share a record company.”

Keith nods a hello.

“Although it seems like these days you’re getting all the attention,” Lotor says, ignoring Keith altogether. “Did you know I just ended a tour?”

“Romelle said something about it,” Lance shrugs. If Lotor’s going to ignore Keith, he might as well give the same attitude.

“Hm. You saw Romelle?”

“She came and did an interview and photoshoot with Voltron. I think we’re her favorite clients.”

They’re not, probably, but Lance will say anything with a wink to rile up Lotor. The dude has the emotional skin of a flimsy balloon, and it’s just too fun to pop. Lotor never comes back with anything, especially if Allura is there. And that’s why Lance doesn’t expect:

“It’s not like she hasn’t seen enough of you in the news,” he hums, checking his nails nonchalantly. “It was all people could talk about when they came to see me. And the pictures in the alley—”

“What about them?” Keith cuts in. Lotor’s thin eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Oh, nothing at all. He just likes a bit of attention.”

Lance doesn’t notice his vice grip on Keith’s shoulder until Keith eases it up with his own hand, threading their fingers together.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Keith says, his voice dropping dangerously. One more octave and he’d be growling. “He caught mine.”

Lotor laughs dryly. Lance’s tongue is too tied to reply.

“Come on, Lance. I think Rolo’s over there.”

“Rolo? We’ve already talked. He’s inside the venue. Send my regards to Allura, Lance,” Lotor says. He pulls his thin lips into a smile and saunters off, leaving them in the dust.

“Lance—”

“What a dick,” Lance mutters bitterly. “You’re the son of the CEO and suddenly you think you’re hot shit.”

Keith doesn’t let go of his hand, instead bringing the tangle down to their sides. He bites his lip like he wants to say something, but evidently swallows it down and leads Lance through the crowd towards the cameras. That’s their agenda for the night: pictures.

People laugh and chat around them, showing off purses and gushing about the designer. Lance can’t place the name of the show anymore; the coils wrap around his chest, so tight he can’t breathe. When the enormous light of the camera flashes, it blinds Lance until the only thing he can focus on is Keith’s hand and his lips pressing a lingering kiss on his cheek.

“This’ll get some attention,” Keith murmurs.

“Well played, babe,” Lance breathes. The heat of Keith’s lips carves Lance’s skin. As Keith drops back from the balls of his feet, Lance’s million-watt grin begins to feel genuine.

It should be concerning. As Keith weaves through the lobby and heads toward the show, Lance thinks it should be concerning that a goddamn cheek kiss from Keith can leave him reeling. They’re not dating. A cheek kiss is strictly professional. Sendak’ll be pleased.

Keith glances behind him and Lance winks back. He doesn’t miss the small smile as Keith faces forward, tightening his grip.

They’re in the second row, right behind a few people Lance might recognize if he cared enough to look. Lotor takes his place on the other side of the runway, far enough back that he disappears into the shadows as the lights dim.

Lance leans back in his seat. He doesn’t miss the photographer prowling around the edges of the venue, snapping shots of the attendees in their best attire. There’s no room to process that, though, as the designer steps out onto the runway and introduces her collection.

The first model enters, wearing—

“Holy shit,” Lance whispers. “Is that a trash bag?”

Keith chuckles, hiding his smirk behind a gloved hand.

“Are you not paying attention?” he leans over to whisper back. “It’s about eco-awareness.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. Another model sashays onto the runway clothed in what might be various bottle caps. “Those aren’t… from the ocean, are they?”

“Yep.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“It’s Avant Garde, _babe_.”

Well. It’s sure doing raise awareness for the eco. A woman with her blonde hair styled in six pack rings walks out. Lots of eco-awareness.

“That’d look good on Lotor,” Lance whispers. Keith huffs a laugh. “And that trash bag dress? I’d wear that.”

“I can’t tell whether you’re making a self-deprecating joke, but you can make anything look hot. Trash bag dress would be a good look for you.”

Lance’s jaw drops and Keith smirks, keeping his gaze on the runway. Lance… doesn’t have an answer to that. He just looks down at their joined hands, then back to the runway.

 

. . .

 

“Trash bags,” is all Lance says as the crowd filters out of the lobby.

“I liked the McDonald’s outfit,” Keith says. “Calling out specific brands. I can get behind that.”

“It just made me want McDonald’s.”

Lance’s hands twitch at his sides with the urge to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Somewhere down the line of cars is one waiting specifically to take them back to Keith’s house. Then Lance has to drive home, and tomorrow his call time is… early. When is Lance’s call time, again?

But the thought of leaving Keith’s side, that’s almost worse. They spent half the show trading remarks into each other’s ears, much to the chagrin of those on either side of them.

“What time is it?” Keith asks.

“Uhh…” Lance checks his watch. “Late.”

“McDonald’s is twenty-four hour.”

“Kogane…” Lance says slowly. Keith’s eyes meet his, and Lance spies a mischievous glint. “Are you suggesting we ditch our ride and get McDonald’s?”

“I was more suggesting we make the driver get junk food on the way back, but I like your idea. An actual cab.”

“In these get-ups?”

“Uh huh. Unless you’re chicken.” He smirks, and the eyeliner just makes it even more attractive.

Lance narrows his eyes. “If anyone’s chicken, it’s you.”

Keith scoffs. He surveys the line of cars once and ducks behind a chatting couple, back the way they came.

“Hey! Keith!”

“Keep up, chicken!” Keith calls behind him.

Oh, fuck Keith Kogane. Lance takes off, following the thin path between primly dressed attendees in Keith’s wake. He finds himself against the wall of the building, the pulsing lights of the entrance left behind. They round a corner, cross a parking lot dimly lit by one post, and head down an alley.

“You’re not actually murdering me, are you?” Lance asks.

“Damn. Foiled my plan,” Keith replies, but as he does, they spill out onto the sidewalk of a six-lane street lined with vibrant city lights and pedestrians. Immediately, Lance looks around for anyone who recognizes them, but a woman in clacking heels only gives them an odd look as she cuts around them.

“How the fuck are we going to get a taxi here?”

“There’s an attraction right down the road, Lance. It’s easy—see?”

The lingering suspicion that Keith might be magic? Confirmed, because a yellow taxi rolls to a stop at the curb.

“Fuck,” Lance says, and dives into the backseat after Keith.

“Where to, boys?” the old man behind the wheel asks, his voice rough from decades of smoking and thick with an accent Lance can’t place.

“The nearest McDonald’s,” Keith replies easily.

He glances in the mirror, finding two conspicuously well-dressed young men in the backseat. He squints at Keith, then Lance.

“You look familiar,” he says.

“Costume party!” Lance blurts out. “The theme was rich famous people. So probably!”

“Huh… well okay, boys.”

Lance collapses into a fit of giggles against the leather seat and Keith rolls his eyes. He mouths _what the fuck?_ to which Lance shrugs and bites back a smile.

“I feel bad,” he whispers, leaning closer. “We left the car behind.”

“Worth it. I haven’t had junk food in five months. It’s so worth it.”

“Five mo—are you joking?! Keith, you’re so deprived,” Lance gasps.

“A body this good requires a few sacrifices.”

“Are you _sure_ I don’t know you?” the driver interrupts, adjusting the mirror to get a better look.

“Positive,” Lance says. “We go to USC. There’s no way.”

“Oh… what are your majors?”

“Ah, business. And computers,” Lance stutters.

“Sports therapy,” Keith says, shooting Lance a _seriously_? look.

“Huh…” He frowns but pulls over to the side of the road without another mention. “Well, here’s your stop.”

A glorious golden arch glows through the window, a beacon of heaven in the late smoggy night. Lance’s mouth waters as he opens the door and scrambles out. Keith slaps some bills down onto the center console and climbs out after him.

“You’re a walking contradiction,” he says in the echo of a car door slam. “How do you lie so easily about some things, but when a stranger asks you for your _major_ you can’t come up with shit?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Lance sniffs, crossing his arms.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Never mind. I want five whoppers.”

“Pretty sure that’s Burger King, which only proves to me you live under a rock.”

They must look a picture in their fancy clothes at a fast food place close to eleven at night. In the line-up of disguises Lance’s used, this takes first place for worst. Thank God, only one lingering patron glances up suspiciously as they enter.

“Alright, pick your poison,” Lance says as they come up to the counter. A bored employee raises an eyebrow when she scans their faces. Lance winks, and she blushes and glances away.

“There’s so much choice,” Keith sighs, staring at the sign in wonder.

“Is Shiro starving you? Should I be concerned?”

“Fuck off. I’m thinking.”

Lance grins. He doesn’t need to choose; McDonald’s is one of the band’s top choices for tour food. Instead, he lets himself watch Keith’s concentrated expression as he studies the menu, lower lip pulled between his teeth and thick brows furrowed.

“Okay. I know what I want,” Keith announces. He steps forward. “A Big Mac with extra cheese, a large fry, and an Oreo McFlurry.”

“… Okay. Are you two paying separately?”

“Sep—”

“Together,” Lance interjects. “I’ll take McNuggets and fries.”

Lance holds a hand up to Keith’s obvious complaints and hands his card over.

“Lance,” Keith tries anyway.

“You paid for the taxi!”

“Yeah, but—”

“Here’s your receipt,” the cashier says. Lance thanks her with a warm smile and saunters away.

“Insufferable,” Keith says. Lance just really wants to kiss him.

Lance grabs the tray and leads them to the farthest booth from entrance where they squish themselves into a corner.

“Napkin bibs,” he says, throwing a stack at Keith, “or Kolivan and Coran will kill us.”

Keith rolls his eyes but complies, stuffing three napkins down his collar to protect the shirt.

“Are you ready for bliss?” Lance asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“You have no fucking idea. My trainer’s gonna kill me, and then Shiro’s gonna kill me again.”

With that, Keith takes a massive bite of the burger. His eyes practically roll back in bliss, and it’s all Lance can do _not_ to watch. Like, holy shit. Is this a Carl’s Jr. commercial?

“Um,” he gulps. “Is it good?”

“No. It tastes like pure garbage. That’s the whole point,” Keith says. He sets the burger down and digs into the fries.

They eat in silence for a little while, only talking when Lance runs out of fries and steals from Keith’s tray, for which Keith flips him off. The excitement of breaking schedule and leaving the car behind dissipates into the weight of the day. When Lance is done, he rests his chin on his palm and lazily watches Keith finish the McFlurry.

“Still worth it?” Lance asks. Keith nods, setting the empty cup on the tray.

“What about you?”

Lance nods, too, stifling a yawn behind his hand. After a few moments of quiet, Keith speaks up again.

“So. Dog Instagram,” he says, throwing a crumpled napkin back onto the tray.

“Oh, shit. I forgot I posted that.” When he takes out his phone and opens Instagram, he finds a staggering amount of interactions with the latest post of Kosmo. He beams and turns the screen to Keith. “Your dog is a verifiable star.”

“I can’t believe you’re seriously thinking about monetizing my dog,” Keith says, but there’s no malice behind his words.

“Not _monetizing_ , Mullet. Showing the public what they deserve! Enormous fluffy dogs named Kosmo!”

“And making money off of it.”

“You’re thinking about this the wrong way,” Lance drawls, waving a hand. “Sponsors are optional. The root of it all is that Kosmo is an adorable space wolf, and the fans love him. Check this out: someone says ‘Cutest dog ever!’ Five heart emojis, three exclamation points.”

“I mean…they’re right.” A little wistful smile passes over Keith’s expression.

“Duh, they’re right. Plus, Coran would flip out. It’d be a hit.”

And the smile slips right off as he crosses his arms.

“Right. It would,” he says, words clipped, but after a few seconds, his arms relax again. “…I do have a lot of photos of Kosmo.”

“Think about it and get back to me.”

“Maybe.” He pushes the tray away and runs a hand through his carefully arranged hair, shaking out the hairspray. Lance unsuccessfully holds back another yawn, and Keith frowns. “Do you want to go?”

“No, no,” Lance says with a shake of his head. “Unless you want to.”

“…Five more minutes. My stomach doesn’t agree with junk food anymore.”

“Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested—”

“Lance, it’s fine.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth again.  “About Lotor earlier.”

“He’s been an asshole for as long as I’ve known him. Don’t worry about that,” Lance shrugs. He throws his legs onto the booth beside him and leans against the cool window, hoping it’ll cover the sudden nerves at the mention of Lotor.

Keith frowns. “It still sucks to hear that kind of stuff. Like, I get it. If you wanna talk about it, I’m…here. For that.”

“Gee, Keith. I’m really okay. He’s like an annoying flea.”

“Not just that,” Keith continues. “Anything. Um, Shiro was there for me when I came out. And as your…” He glances around at the single patron. “As your boyfriend, I’m here for you, too.”

He looks at Lance with such earnest that Lance’s heart stutters in his chest, brows unfurrowed and eyes wide. He has to sit up right again, too stunned to reply.

“Ask me something right now. Anything,” Keith says. “I’m serious, Lance.”

“Uh, I don’t know?” Lance stammers.

“Anything. Come on.”

With Keith’s permission, dozens of questions suddenly swirl around Lance’s brain. He hesitates to pick one, but Keith nods.

“How did you know you were gay?” he asks. There.

“It’s cliché, but I’ve always known,” Keith replies readily. “I watched the other boys chase girls on the playground and decided I’d rather send threatening letters to boys I liked instead.”

“You’re kidding. Did you seriously?”

“Yeah. Like I said, trouble child. Can I ask you a question?” Keith asks. Lance gestures for him to continue. “How did you know you were bi?”

“First of all, Harrison Ford.” Keith giggles. “Second of all, it wasn’t easy. I always knew I liked girls, but I only realized I liked boys in sophomore year of high school. There was that football player… We shared Honors Chemistry, and he was nice. Hispanic, like me. And hot.”

Lance frowns, the heavy memory of confusion over a boy classmate rushing over him. Keith kicks his feet under the table, hooking an ankle around Lance’s.

“That was fucking terrifying,” Lance whispers. “It still is.”

“That’s okay,” Keith murmurs, soft under the noise of the restaurant.

“Sometimes I’m jealous of people who’ve always known. And sometimes I think I _am_ faking it because I didn’t. Like Lotor said, I’m doing it for attention.”

“You’re not,” Keith says forcefully. “You’re you. Who gives a shit?”

“I do,” Lance laughs emptily.

“Fuck him. Fuck Lotor.”

“You’re really good at this talking thing,” Lance teases.

“Shut up. I’m trying. Listen. Did you like kissing me?”

Lance blinks. Uh… How is he supposed to answer that? “Is that a trick question?”

“Just go with it. Do you like kissing me?”

Lance’s eyes drop unbidden to Keith’s lips. The fireworks, aimed straight at him. Keith, biting Lance’s lip. It hasn’t left his mind since. He nods slowly.

“Then you’re not faking it. You do a lot of things for attention, Lance, but your sexuality isn’t one of them.” Keith’s expression is hard but still earnest, like he desperately wants Lance to understand. Maybe. Maybe Lance does.

“Thanks,” Lance says softly. “That. Means a lot.”

“Good,” Keith replies, knocking their ankles together. The touch sends shivers through Lance, but it feels good. Comfortable.

“One more question.”

“Shoot,” Keith says.

“Did _you_ like kissing me?”

“What—” Keith splutters. His eyebrows raise in surprise, then lower into another devious smirk. “Sure. I mean, you’re not the best I’ve ever had, but… Your reputation doesn’t fail you.”

Then he slides out of the booth, taking the tray with him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Lance call, scrambling after him.

Keith doesn’t reply, only dumps his tray and heads for the door. And for a second, Lance just watches him go.

Until he spots the cashier pointing her phone camera at him, and he hastily rips the napkins from his shirt and runs after Keith.  

 

. . .

 

“I never told Plaxum,” Lance says between bites of sweet ice cream, surveying the stalls lining the sidewalks. Keith hums in response as he adjusts his sunglasses. “I thought she’d find it weird. Why would I be thinking about kissing boys when I was with her?”

“She knows now,” Keith says.

“That’s awkward.” Lance shudders. “Hey, look. Fresh fruit!”

Keith looks Lance’s way to the other side of the narrow pathway. Lance takes his hand and drags him along, grinning broadly at the array before them.

“We barely ever get fresh fruit,” Lance explains. “Ordering mangos for delivery groceries never works out.”

“What the hell do you eat, then?” Keith asks.

“Toaster waffles. Lots of toaster waffles and frozen pizza.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Lance plucks a ripe papaya off a pile, much to the chagrin of the stout woman manning the stall.

 _“¿Vas a pagar por esa papaya?”_ she demands, waving a finger at him.

“ _Si,”_ Lance says, then turns to Keith. “In Cuba, we call papayas _frutabombas_. Guess why.”

“Papaya means something rude, doesn’t it?”

Lance giggles and points Keith to a plastic bag dispenser. Keith holds out the plastic bag with one hand and Lance drops the papaya in. He picks up a mango next and holds it in front of Keith. He tied his hair back ten minutes ago, complaining about the rising temperatures. A few locks fall loose, framing his sharp cheeks and big, questioning eyes.

“ _Tú eres un mango_ ,” Lance says with a wink. Keith wrinkles his nose.

“Why are you calling me a mango?” he asks.

Lance drops the mango in the bag without replying. On second thought, he picks out two more, then hands some bills to the woman.-

“ _Gracia_ s _,_ ” Lance says. “These are gonna be so good. Best fake date so far.”

“Who did you tell?” Keith asks. It takes a moment for Lance to remember their previous conversation.

“Oh! Hunk, and my mom and my sister Veronica,” he replies around another mouthful of ice cream. “Veronica didn’t care, but mom took a little convincing. She’s fine, now, though I think she worries too much.”

“You’re her youngest son. I’m pretty sure that’s natural.”

“What about you?” Lance asks.

They wander down another aisle of stalls as Keith thinks, this one decorated with various potted jams and honeys. Keith leads them to a stall of barbecue sauce in all different flavors.  A sign reads _Free samples of scorpion barbecue sauce, made with real scorpions!_

“Only Shiro knew for a while,” Keith replies. “I didn’t really care who knew, but it’s different when you’re a child actor. Everyone wants to make a big deal out of it. How often do former child actors—and ones typecast for straight romances—come out as gay?”

“Shiro being gay… Did that help?”

“Yes—ew.” Keith shrinks away from the scorpion sauce sample. “Too crunchy. Shiro got me a rainbow cake and rainbow party hats and said, ‘Welcome to the gay side!’”

“Well, shit. Now I want cake.” Lance takes the sauce sample and tries it. Oh, _definitely_ too crunchy.

“He’s also an entertainment lawyer. If anyone wants to fuck with me, they have to go through him first,” Keith says with a smirk.

“Your brother is so badass. Next time, I hope we’re not making out when I meet him.”

Keith elbows him harshly as Lance takes a bite of ice cream, smearing it across his face.

“Asshole!” Lance cries.

“You have a little something,” Keith says.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lance spots a camera prowling along in the next aisle over. Keith must spot it, too, because he leans up and wipes a thumb across Lance’s cheek.

“A little something there,” he repeats and licks the ice cream off his thumb.

Lance can only follow the action, heart thudding slightly harder against his chest. _What if Keith tastes sweet?_ He thinks. Sweet, like a mixture of Keith’s mint chip and Lance’s chocolate.

“Um,” Lance says, tearing his eyes away. “Let’s go this way.”

As they pass by stalls of jewelry and little trinkets, a group of girls gasp to their left. Oh, boy. Lance hasn’t even checked in the last five minutes if the security guard is still trailing after them.

He adjusts the bag of fruit on his arm and links their pinkies together, just enough to be noticed and enough for reassurance against the line ten seconds away from forming.

“Your ice cream is melting,” Lance says, gesturing to Keith’s cone.

“At the same rate as yours,” Keith says. “Why?”

“Oh, it’s just that you’ve got a little something…” Lance trails off. He ducks down, ignoring his racing pulse, and kisses the drop of mint off the corner of Keith’s mouth. As Lance pulls away, a quip on the tip of his tongue, Keith turns his head and kisses him straight on.

Lance is right. Sweet, like chocolate and mint. When Keith pulls away, all Lance can do is stare. The noise of the farmer’s market shoppers obscures the camera shutters, but Lance could care less.

“Hang on,” Lance murmurs. “Almost got it.”

And he swoops in one more time, just because he can, and they’re in public, and all Lance really yearns to do is tug Keith in by his stupid jacket and kiss him senseless.

“Congratulations, Mr. Romance, on your public kiss and your point,” Keith says when Lance moves back a fraction. “I think Sendak will be okay with that.”

“Yeah?” Lance smiles a little smugly.

“Don’t let it get to you. You have an audience.”

Sure enough, when Lance straightens up, a couple kids in Voltron shirts are gathered a few feet away, jaws practically on the floor.

“’Sup,” Lance grins, handing off the bag of fruit to Keith. “What are you ladies doing here on this fine Saturday morning?”

The entire time he talks to the kids, Lance can’t focus. His mind races, drawn like a magnet to the fresh memory of Keith’s lips against his. It’s been four days since they first kissed in Keith’s living room, and Lance is pretty sure he’s addicted. Two kisses just aren’t enough… Perhaps three will do.

 

. . .

 

Amid all the articles (“Lance and Keith – Only eyes for each other!”), the tweets (@astrolance – is it just me or is this the happiest lance has been in months???), and Keith himself, Lance doesn’t know where he is. Metaphorically and literally. They’re at some sort of party; the rest of Voltron is around here somewhere, too, possibly chatting about important stuff to which Lance should be paying attention. He’s not paying attention at all.

There was rehearsal this morning, then another meeting about set design, and now they’re here. Keith, leaning against a wall with crossed arms, and Lance, chatting with the group of people around them.

“So I said to the stagehand,” Lance says, gesturing wildly as Keith listens on, “No! Why would I ever steal a golf cart? That’s venue property, and call time for sound check is in five minutes. Meanwhile, Pidge is sneaking behind her and picking the golf cart keys from her pocket.”

The group roars with laughter and Lance beams. Across the party, he spots Pidge standing on a chair, talking loudly to Allura about something he can’t make out.

“Hey, there she is!” Lance turns to Keith. “You want another drink, babe?”

“Sure. Don’t forget the umbrella,” Keith says.

Lance grins; God, he really is cute tonight. No crop top, sadly, but the sweatshirt pools at his wrists and shows off his collarbones. Lance wants to bite those collarbones. Instead, he settles for swooping in with a brief cheek kiss before parting.

“Hey, Hunky,” Lance greets, patting Hunk as they pass each other.

“Lance!” Hunk says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. What is it we’re doing here?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m just drinking the alcohol,” Lance says.

“Don’t hurt yourself, buddy. Where’s Keith?”

“Over by the wall. I’m just getting him something.”

Hunk squints in Keith’s direction.

“Aren’t you two sick of each other? You had that date _and_ an interview yesterday.”

“Relax, Keith’s cool! He’s my friend now, remember? If I was sick of him you’d have heard me complain by now.” Lance throws an arm over Hunk’s shoulder and directs him in Keith’s direction. “Go talk and be his friend, too! He likes it when you compliment Kosmo.”

Hunk nods and he’s off, leaving Lance to stumble to the array of alcohol on a table near the kitchen. He’s beginning to think that this isn’t some industry thing, but an actual party. One with people who aren’t like him. Who invited them again? Romelle?

Whatever. He pours himself a cup of something and downs it before pouring two more cups of something else—no umbrellas, to his utter disappointment—and makes his way back to Keith.

Except Keith isn’t against the wall, and now Hunk’s engaged with the group of people. Finishing the golf cart story, hopefully. Where’s Keith? There’s Allura and Pidge, gambling at the dining table. By the distraught cries from the other gamblers and Allura’s stack of money, it looks like she’s winning. Over there by the couch is Romelle—so she did invite them.

The people part, and there, next to an archway, is Keith. Talking to someone. Someone who’s leaning with an elbow on the wall, clearly pulling _something_.

Red hot pools in Lance’s stomach as he watches. It takes a disorienting second to figure out what it is: jealousy. For what? Keith’s not his actual boyfriend. What is Lance jealous of?

That doesn’t matter right now. They’re in public. As far as everyone in this room is concerned, Keith is taken. Lance stomps forward, drink sloshing up the sides of the cups, and sidles up to the pair.

“Here you go, babe,” Lance says, handing Keith’s cup over. “I didn’t try it, but I hope it’s as sweet as you.”

Keith eyebrows raise in surprise as he takes a sip.

“Hey, Lance,” the man leaning against the wall says. Lance finally looks up and gasps.

“Oh, Rolo! I didn’t see you there,” Lance says. “What’s up, man?”

“Nothing much,” Rolo shrugs. “Just catching up with Keith.”

“Cool! Cool. Hey, if you ever want Voltron tickets, just ask me. A friend of Keith’s is a friend of mine.” Lance takes a long sip and grimaces; not sweet.

“…Thanks, dude. I’ll see. Voltron isn’t really my scene.”

Lance decides he doesn’t like the way Rolo looks down his sloping nose. He lets his shoulder bump Keith’s and scoffs, “Pop hits are, like, everyone’s scene!”

“Yeah, not really. My thing is more metal, like Keith.”

“Metal, shmetal,” Lance waves. It strikes close, though. Did Keith ever tell Lance he likes metal? He wraps an arm around Keith’s waist and grins at Rolo. “If I can convert Keith, I can convert anyone.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Keith snorts. “This stuff is rank. Are we at a college party?”

“No clue!”

The music turns up a notch, and people cheer as they dance. Rolo looks on in boredom.

“So, Keith—”

“Wanna dance?” Lance interrupts.

“Hm.” Keith ponders for an excruciating moment before handing his cup to Rolo. “Try this. It’s sweet.”

And then Lance is setting his own on a random table and tugging Keith into the crowd. Keith grins that wicked canine grin and wraps his arms around Lance’s neck.

It reminds Lance of another party, but it’s so much better. Keith is going to drive him insane with the way he’s moving, nails scratching at the skin below Lance’s collar. The jealousy is replaced by something Lance doesn’t want to name. Something that has Lance tracing the way the lights shine on Keith’s jaw and craving the skin of his stomach.

“I miss the crop top,” Lance says into Keith’s ear.

“I still have it,” Keith muses. “You want it back?”

“No. No, I mean I miss _you_ wearing the crop top.”

Keith pulls back, letting his hands fall to Lance’s chest.

“Are you drunk?” he asks.

“Maybe. Maybe a little. It’s been a long week. Are you?”

“No,” Keith says. Someone jostles Lance and he stumbles into Keith, lips accidentally brushing against his neck. Lance almost misses the way Keith’s breath hitches. _Point,_ he thinks absently. “You should, uh, get some water.”

“Mm, why are you always like this?” Lance whines. “One day you kiss me, the next day you try to ignore me until you can’t anymore. You tell me you don’t like touching, but you touch me. A _lot_.”

“I told you, Lance, I—”

“And when I do this…” Lance slides his hands up Keith’s sweatshirt and settles them against the scorching skin of his stomach. As suspected, the muscles stutter under Lance’s touch. “You like it. See?”

“Lance.” Keith grabs his wrists and takes his hands off. “You need water.”

Through Lance’s protests, Keith drags him out of the throng, past the table of liquor, and into the kitchen. It’s nice, maybe too nice for a college party. What college is around here, anyway?

Lance leans against the counter as Keith grabs a water bottle from the fridge and uncaps it for him.

“Here,” he says. Dutifully, Lance takes a swig, the cold liquid searing down his throat. The room swims around a little less in here.

When Lance sets the bottle down, Keith’s still staring at him, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“You let me touch you,” Lance says. The conversation feels different in the empty kitchen, but it’s all on the tip of Lance’s tongue. He can’t let it go.

“You’re not going to drop this, are you?” Keith sighs.

“Because you _like_ touch.”

“It’s you who likes touch!” Keith shoots back. “You touch everyone, all the time. I’m just getting with the program.”

“No.” Lance shakes his head and pushes himself off the counter and into Keith, enveloping him in his arms. A little inner voice cheers when Keith doesn’t push away the most enormous hug Lance can muster. “You _like_ touch, don’t you? You enjoy it. Admit it, Keithy. You’re enjoying this.”

“Insufferable,” Keith mutters.

“I’ve figured out your big secret,” Lance hums. He pulls away by a fraction and rests his forehead against Keith’s.

“What… would that be?” Keith asks. His eyes flicker down to Lance’s lips, then away.

For a moment, Lance just lets himself stare. His eyes go kind of criss-cross and the image blinks in and out of focus, but there’s that faint acne scar.

“You’re a _glutton_ for touch, babe. And now that I know it, I’m never gonna let you live it down.”

With that, he drops his head to Keith’s shoulder and tightens his grip.

“Yeah,” Keith laughs dryly. “That’s it. You caught me. Now let go; I have a threshold for this type of stuff, and you’re crossing it just by being drunk.”

“Nuh uh,” Lance protests. He buries his nose into the junction of Keith’s neck and breathes deep. Vanilla. Something woody. Lance wants to lick it.

But just because Keith likes touch doesn’t mean Lance can touch him like that. He’ll take what he can get. And right now, at the end of an unbearable week and ahead of another, he’ll take this. Keith, despite his objections, is an incredible hugger.

“I’m a great cuddler,” Lance says, the words muffled into Keith’s skin. “Hunk can back me up. We cuddle all the time. Allura’s good, too, but she has bony shoulders.”

“And you don’t?”

“Shh! Don’t call me out! I swam on a team in high school; I’m allowed to have my shoulders.” He pauses, lifting his head but keeping his arms tight around Keith’s middle. “I’ve seen you in _A Royal Christmas._ You cuddle with—with that girl. A-a…”

“Why are you thinking about this?”

Lance isn’t drunk enough for this. He glances down to Keith’s lips. Wonders if Keith will let him, here. With no one around. No Adam and Shiro.

“Because you feel like a furnace,” Lance mumbles. He nudges forward, letting his nose brush against Keith’s. Keith’s hands tighten their grip on the shoulders of Lance’s shirt. “I’ll keep touching you if you promise not to ignore me.”

He dips closer still, testing the choppy waters. His lips brush against Keith’s, and Keith doesn’t back away.

“You’re drunk,” Keith whispers.

“Not enough.”

There’s a light thud as Keith’s back hits the counter, and then Keith’s moving his lips against Lance. Fireworks, but smoother, shot under the surface of a placid lake. Lance sighs into it, mouth opening when Keith prompts him. He could do this for _hours._ Why don’t they do this for hours?

“Hey, is Lance—Lance! Aaand Keith,” a new voice says. Keith freezes under Lance’s touch and in the next second shoves him away to arm’s length, nails digging into his biceps. Lance blinks and glances over to see Hunk, Pidge, and Allura in the archway.

“What’s up, Keith?” Pidge asks, cocking her head to one side and looking between them.

“I figured something out,” Lance announces.

“He’s drunk,” Keith says, letting Lance go altogether. He misses the touch instantly, the ghost of Keith still on his lips and skin. Something unsettling blooms beneath his chest, an alarm bell clamoring against his ribs as he stares at Keith’s hands clenching against his sides. Lance can’t name it.

“He’s a cuddly drunk,” Hunk explains. He opens his mouth again, closes it, then settles on: “Come on, Loverboy. We’re gonna get you home.”

Lance blindly nods. He can barely think around the alarm bell.

“You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow,” Pidge says. “I can already tell.”

With some effort, he turns around and musters up a glare. “You’re so mean, Pidge. How are none of you on my level?”

“Because we remembered to eat today,” Allura says. “I’m afraid you didn’t.”

Oh…yeah. That would explain it. Lance sighs and lets Hunk drag him away. He misses the concerned glances above his head and the way Keith touches his lips as he leaves.

“See ya, Keithy boy,” Lance calls after him.

“Bye, Lance,” Keith says, and Hunk steers him out of the kitchen.

 

. . .

 

_Bzz. Bzz._

That sound...vaguely familiar. And annoying.

 _Bzz_.

Lance cracks open a single eye against the sunlight streaming into the room. Did he open the blinds? He can't remember.

 _Bzz_.

So fucking insistent! He groans and drags himself onto his elbows to grope around the sheets. Somewhere between the comforter and the fleece blanket, he finds the source of the sound.

"Ah, fuck," he mutters. _The Mothership_ blinks on the screen under a low battery symbol. What happened last night that he didn't remember to plug in his phone?

Wait. The memories trickle in a little, an IV drip of moments. Keith leaning against the wall, Allura scraping together a pile of money with a devious Pidge over her shoulder. Keith with his arms around Lance's neck, Hunk holding him up. Keith and Lance in the middle of the dancing, Keith and Lance in the empty kitchen.

" _Fuck_ ," Lance repeats, dropping his face straight into the pillow again. Maybe it'll suffocate him in the next five seconds and he won't have to answer the phone. He won't have to remember his impulsive actions, too, telling Keith he was a glutton for touch. Hugging him. Kissing him.

Their friends caught them kissing.

The phone buzzes again. He checks the screen, hoping against hope it's not his mother calling.

From Keith. _Get home safe?_

Lance groans again. The same alarm bells from last night pound into his head and chest, spreading down his arms and into his stomach. This isn’t good. He knows what this is. He doesn’t—he can’t name it.

It’s a hangover, is what it is. He’s hungover.

"Lance!" a voice calls from down the hallway. "Car in twenty minutes!"

In lieu of a reply, Lance sends an animalistic cry and rolls onto his back, blinking away sleep at the high ceiling. He should reply to Keith. He should call his mother. He should jump into the shower before Hunk takes it.

When Lance stumbles out of the shower ten minutes later, a toothbrush shoved into his mouth and a towel perched precariously on his short hair, it's to Pidge shuffling down the hallway, flipping through the pages of a magazine.

"You hate yourself yet?" she asks, licking her index finger and pointedly flicking the next page.

"Yes," Lance replies honestly. "I think Keith hates me, too."

She doesn’t reply, pursing her lips. Then, she flicks one more page and holds out the magazine. "You should read this. There's a Red Bull for you on the bar, too."

"I don't read the rags when it's not about me, Pidge," Lance says as he pokes the toothbrush at her nose. She wrinkles it in disgust and jerks back.

"Oh, it’s about you." Pidge shoves it into his bare chest, the cover sticking to the remnants of the shower.

Lance pouts but takes it and backs into the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth. The magazine lays forgotten on the bathroom counter as he changes, his mind on other, more sensitive topics. He runs through what he can remember of the night before, of Keith’s reactions. Was Keith drunk, too? Lance doesn’t even know how drunk _he_ was. He finds he viscerally remembers the important parts, like shoving his hands up Keith’s sweater, and telling him he’s figured out his ‘secret’, and kissing him, finally, again…

As he runs gel through his hair and sticks it in the correct direction, he spots it again. On the corner of the cover are two photos: Lance and Keith in the farmer's market, sharing a kiss, and a professional photoshoot of Keith, moody eyes hooded and accompanied by a playful smirk. _Keith gets deep on Love on Daibazaal—and Earth._

He wills his heart to slow down, flicks to the correct page again, and wanders into the kitchen. Hunk's already put a frozen waffle in the toaster, he himself slumped against the bar top with his headband pulled over his eyes.

"Mornin'," Hunk says with a yawn. Lance ruffles his hair without looking up from the magazine, staring instead at Keith's intense expression on the intro photo of his three-page spread. An article accompanies it, and Lance scans to look for anything familiar.

_Keith Kogane is every bit as sultry and withdrawn in real life as he is in the movies. He's just come off a photoshoot, his signature jet black hair styled with gel and his eyes lined with kohl. It's a stark contrast to the thrown together hoodie and skinny jeans combo, but, strangely enough, it works. He sits across from me unsure, picking at a thread on the hoodie, as if he's not used to interviews like this._

_"I'm not," Keith laughs. "I don't usually do this stuff. Private life is private, you know?"_

_He really doesn't. His image has been built off the air of intrigue surrounding his absence from social media and in-depth interviews, paired with the broody and romantic characters he’s known to play. Since I've followed his career, I never imagined I'd sit in a coffee shop with him, talking over lattes with foam art. So, what changed?_

_"Lots of things," he says, choosing his words carefully. "Maybe I'm not so scared of it all anymore."_

_He refuses to elaborate on that, changing the subject to his upcoming movie,_ Love on Daibazaal. _It's a breakthrough film regaling the love story of..._

Blah blah blah. More things about the movie. A bit about the directors, working with Rolo, and Keith's charity work. Lance bites into the toasted waffle and continues.

_...turning back to the first few exchanges of our conversation. By this time, I think I can gather what changed. It's come time for the prince of love stories to have his own love story, right off the pages of a best-selling novel._

_“I’ve been on social media more in the past month than I have in the past year,” Keith says, rolling his eyes as he sips his latte._

_“What changed?” I ask again. For a split second, so fast I almost miss it, he smiles. “Or who?”_

_“I have to keep up with whatever Lance and his bandmates do on there. You never know when they suddenly post a picture of you sleeping on your boyfriend.”_

_“And when you need to flirt with someone you met at the Grammy’s the night before?”_

_“I didn’t know where to get his number! We run in completely different circles. I figured he’d remember me.”_

_“And he did,” I say._

_A blush highlights his sharp cheekbones as he glances away._

_“He did.”_

_I assume he’ll leave it there. Already, it’s the most he’s ever shared about his romantic life with the public. His blossoming relationship with recently out Lance McClain, the leading man of the pop band Voltron, is in its delicate infancy, and displaying it on social media must be strange enough after so many years of near silence. But he looks up again, a glint of something I’ve never seen before in his eyes. Excitement, maybe. Affection._

_“It’s weird,” he says, gracing me with another rare smile. “Sometimes when you meet someone, you just know.”_

_“How did you know?” I ask._

_“Can’t say yet. I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”_

_He stares out of the window of the café, lost in thought. For a moment, I let him. It’s a peculiar and special thing to watch, young love. I feel I’ve been offered a privilege to see it first hand, unfolding under the harsh lights of Hollywood. There may not be aliens or asteroids, but Keith Kogane and Lance McClain are making a groundbreaking love story of their own._

_They’re a sign of the times, a sign of acceptance and change. Most importantly, they’re a sign that love is love is love. It’s our privilege to witness it._

The waffle’s gone cold, forgotten in his hand. The bottom of Lance’s stomach churns, and his grip on the magazine is white-knuckled.

His eyes linger on the black-and-white photo of Keith glowering on the left page, his soft black hair feathering over his forehead. The churning turns into a rage within him, and he forces himself to lower the magazine onto the bar top. He throws away the rest of the waffle, balanced precariously on top of the trash pile, and grips the edge of the counter.

The murmur of voices in the rest of the apartment quiets. He can’t figure out if it’s because of the ringing in his ears or actual silence. All he can wonder is exactly where Keith pulled those words and emotions from, who he fell in love with that mirrors the article.

And for a moment, he loses himself in the fantasy Keith really _did_ see something in him the first time they met. Because Lance feels it. He feels Keith’s fingers feathering his skin, his half-lidded gaze with endless black eyes, his breath against the shell of his ear.

“Lance?” a voice pierces through the fog around him, and Lance takes a second to glance up to Hunk, a cup of steaming liquid in his hands and concern in his eyes. “You okay there, buddy?”

“I’m chill,” Lance croaks out.

“Alright,” he shrugs. “Pidge, you ready?”

It’s not real. He tells himself five times. Keith makes it feel real because he’s an actor. It’s who he is and why people love him. Mr. Romance. And Lance—Lance is just hungover.

He gives himself two more cycles of deep breathing exercises, then lets go of the counter and shakes out his fingers. In, out. He still has a job to do. In, out. It’s not real.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID I write 50k words of lead-up just to write the practice kissing trope? Maybe. Yes. Yes, I did. But who would I be if I didn't? 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I love and cherish every comment and kudos. You can also reblog the [Tumblr post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/184814955826/love-song-in-c-minor-chapter-six), and follow my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/) and chat with me. Please, please share! It means so much to me to talk to you guys about LSICM or see it in different places.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should totally play together,” Lance says. “Come on, give me a C Major chord.”
> 
> Keith obliges, finds the notes, and hits all three at the same time. In response, Lance plays the same in sequence—an arpeggio. Keith snorts, then switches to another chord. Lance again plays the corresponding arpeggio. Their melody is elementary, but something about it soothes the fraying of Lance’s nerves. They continue, until Keith’s right hand plays C Minor, and Lance’s arpeggio lands his thumb over Keith’s.
> 
> The touch sparks. They both freeze, the music echoing into silence until all Lance can hear is the rapid thumping of his own heart. Only now does Keith seem to notice how close they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pat on the back for me for the shortest posting wait between chapters! We've come a long way from six months between the first two chapters. I'm still maintaining the month limit between chapters policy, so I dunno if we'll experience this miracle again. Also, with this chapter, Love Song in C Minor is officially the longest thing I've ever written! And there's still a long way to go. This makes me probably unreasonably proud. 
> 
> I also underestimated the difficulty of making a playlist for this fic, but I've had the song for this chapter for a while: Bad Ideas by Tessa Violet. The original title was even "Bad Ideas (I Know Were They Lead)." I still love it tbh. Bad Ideas embodies a lot of this fic (also it's incredible, and you should definitely listen). 
> 
> Thank you guys for reading and support! I'm so glad you liked the last chapter, because it's definitely one of my favorites. Thanks to the Happychat for being encouragement and support. And Zen, specifically, who is so frustrated but continues to read. My heart goes out to you in this trying chapter update. 
> 
> Chapter seven is just 6.8k, but it's important enough to update the tags a little ;). Enjoy!

From Keith. _Get home safe?_

From Lance. _like hunk would let any harm to me. also, do u remember that we kissed last night?_

He backspaces frantically.

From Lance. _like hunk would let any harm come to me. Did u??_

There. Safe. Keith’s reply is almost immediate.

From Keith. _Yeah. Found Shiro sneaking sugary cereal in the kitchen when I opened the door._

Lance shakes his knee incessantly, chewing his lower lip as he stares at the text. Will Keith bring it up? Or will this be the type of thing they leave behind, an awkward moment not meant to happen in the first place?

From Lance. _now he can’t blame u for the mickey d’s. it’s blackmail material_

As the band gathers their stuff and heads to the car, Lance on their heels, last night and the article bounce around Lance’s head. He can’t concentrate on any one thing; it’s like there’s too much crammed into the limited space between his ears. The skin of Keith’s neck. _Sometimes when you meet someone, you just know._ Their kiss.

The worst part about today is Coran scheduled for Keith to tag along to band rehearsal. It’s one of the last before they’re shipped off to New York City, and Coran and Kolivan have teamed up to amp the attention Keith and Lance can bring to themselves.

Keith’s just supposed to play supportive boyfriend today. Domesticity on steroids. Lance assumes Coran’s perfect outcome for this rehearsal would be Lance serenading Keith to Crystal Venom, Latin style.

When Keith climbs into the car, he stretches out in the middle row, dark sunglasses folded down the collar of his shirt and beanie pulled over his ears. Lance drags his eyes up the line of his tight skinny jeans and open leather jacket until they fall on Keith’s knowing smirk. His cheeks heat up and snaps his gaze to the seat headrest before him, clearing his throat.

“Lucky Charm or Fruity Pebbles?” he asks, abstaining from the urge to nudge Keith’ ankle with the toe of his sneaker like he’s taken to doing. Has he always been this touchy with Keith?

“Honey Nut Cheerios,” Keith replies smoothly.

“Even when you guys are being unhealthy, you’re healthy about it,” he says with a helpless snicker. “Come on, there’s gotta be a stash of pop tarts behind the protein powder.”

“You could do with some protein powder.” Keith rolls his eyes, and, to prove his point, pokes Lance in the bicep. The miniscule touch rocks through him like a high magnitude earthquake.

“Take it back!” he shoots back, scowling to hide his inner freak out.

“Fine, I won’t say anything more,” Keith hums, but he pokes harshly again, apparently satisfied with his potential bruise.

“Settle down, children,” Hunk tuts. Lance sticks out his tongue but obliges and sinks back into his seat. Honestly, he could use any excuse not to flounder while talking to Keith.

“So, _anyway_ , because none of us know what that conversation is about.” Pidge squeezes between the two middle seats and looks at Keith expectantly. “What kind of aliens do you think the government is hiding?”

After way too much conversation about the potential existence of aliens and their appearances (“Maybe humanoid? But purple, with fur or something.” “Keith, you have zero imagination. I’m expecting tardigrades the size of actual bears, or wiggly sticks that speak three-syllable languages. That’s why they can’t let the world at large know!”), the car rolls to a stop in front of the rehearsal space.

The band piles out and into the building to their rehearsal room. They head immediately towards their respective corners, grabbing instrument cases and drumsticks. Leaving Keith behind in the doorway, Lance makes a beeline for the shitty acoustic in the corner.

When he turns around, the neck of guitar in his right hand, his heart catches at the slightly lost and bewildered expression on Keith’s face.

“Come on,” Lance forces himself to say, retracing his steps until he’s next to Keith again. “We got couches. Pidge hides books in the corner. I think Hunk has pudding down the hall.”

“This is where you play music?” Keith asks, taking a hesitant step into the room.

“This is where the magic happens, baby.” Lance shimmies a little, to which Keith rolls his eyes.

“You need to come up with new material,” he scoffs.

Lance watches as Keith makes his way around the perimeter. He touches the cloth-covered instruments shoved into the corners, eyes the diffusers and absorbers lining the walls, and breathes in the scent of wood, varnish, and a hint of cleaning supplies. When he comes around, he stops at the grand piano dragged into the center of the room and opens the protective cover.

“Who plays?” he asks.

“Lance and me,” Allura replies from where she already sits on her stool, guitar perched on her lap and running scales along the fingerboard with her quick, lithe fingers. “Do you?” she inquires, not skipping a single note.

“Not really,” Keith shrugs. He wanders away and sits on the couch with his legs folded beneath him. “I’m not in the way, am I?”

“Not at all,” Lance says. He settles the guitar strap over his shoulders, focusing on the dig of the coarse fabric into his skin rather than the soft, hesitant look in Keith’s eyes. At the piano, he plays a tuning pitch.

This, he can do. He can play music and squash last night out of his mind. Pidge shows Keith the stash of books, and he picks one to read until the opportunity comes to show the starring romantic couple off on social media. Still, no matter how hard Lance tries, Keith sneaks into his peripheral vision.

He’s kind of a warming presence. Keith may feel the most comfortable at the edge of the conversation, observing instead of taking center stage, but a room without him feels empty. As they meticulously pick over their impending television performances, Keith alternates between lazily watching and burying himself in one of Pidge’s music engineering textbooks. Every so often he makes a comment at their bidding, and more often than that he meets Lance’s eyes and quirks a small smile. Lance’s skin prickles; he’s used to grand audiences, rows and rows of unfamiliar faces all cheering his name. Keith’s steady gaze is unnerving at worst and tingly at best, the ultimate shot to his system.

“As the chorus builds up,” Lance says, staunchly ignoring Keith, “we speed up a little too fast. If we slow it down, like we did on the recording.”

Hunk nods in agreement. They continue. Keith continues to stare.

After a few blundered drum patterns, Pidge rubs her bleary eyes. The thought springs to the forefront of Lance’s mind: How much sleep is _she_ getting per night?

“You wanna take a break, Pidgeon?” Lance asks. Gratefully, she nods and sets her drumsticks on the snare.

“I’m gonna go raid the snacks,” she mutters. “Be back in ten.”

Lance carefully leans his guitar in its stand and slouches on his stool, unintentionally facing Keith’s direction. A part of him, the tired part, yearns to bury himself in the soft fabric of Keith’s shirt, visible now that he’s shucked off his leather jacket. A larger part hesitates.

Does Keith remember? Did Lance weird him out? Was the kiss last night too far? They haven’t touched much today. How much do they normally touch? Is that changed because—

Keith sets his book down and Lance jolts out of his thoughts, looking up to see that Hunk and Allura have already left the room.

“You going to get anything?” Keith asks, scratching idly at his beanie.

“You think I’m going to leave you alone?” Lance raises an eyebrow. Even he’s not that cruel. “Think again. Hunk’ll probably bring me something. He knows which cabinet I stash cookies in.”

Keith stands up, heading for the grand piano. Lance watches with interest as he sits on the bench, looking at the instrument like it’ll come alive and bite his head off.

“You said you didn’t really play piano,” Lance comments, following Keith. He leans against the body, looking down at Keith’s concentrated face.

In lieu of a response, Keith places both hands on the keys and presses down.

It’s something fast, a series of eighth note runs intermingling with lower half notes. Nothing too wild, but not a song for someone who looks like he’s seen a piano for the first time in his life.

“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about music?” Lance asks when Keith abruptly stops, stumbling over a few notes.

“I know approximately two things,” Keith says with a pout. “Parents forced me into classical piano lessons for a few years. Shiro’s better, so we still have one in the house.”

Lance, despite himself, slides onto the bench—not enough to touch, but enough that he glances over to gauge Keith’s reaction. The only sign of acknowledgement is a twitch on the corner of his mouth.

Instead of playing on, he studies the sheet music haphazardly left on the rack, a collection of scribbled in black notes above illegible lyrics.

“You have shit handwriting,” Keith says. He spots the notebook on top of the piano and picks it up, flipping lazily though the pages. He passes the kernels for Voltron songs until the last used page, a mess of unfinished stanzas. Lance makes out the words _barrel_ and _face the lights_ before it dawns on him. “Is this all you?”

He snatches away the notebook and returns it to the top of the piano. “Yep! Can’t have you leaking it to the public!”

“…Okay, weirdo. I’m not the public.”

“Er, I mean,” Lance backpedals, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not…comfortable sharing lyrics before they’re really fleshed out. Then, if it sucks, I can burn the whole notebook before anyone knows.”

Keith hums and returns his attention to the keys. Eager to change the subject, Lance asks, “Why’d you stop?”

“I hate scales,” Keith says bluntly. “Besides, I had to film a movie in Georgia _._ ”

Hesitantly, Lance places his left hand on the keys, mirroring Keith’s right. When Keith’s thumb plays a note, Lance plays the third above, creating a good, simple harmony. Keith’s mouth quirks again.

“We should totally play together,” Lance says. “Come on, give me a C Major chord.”

Keith obliges, finds the notes, and hits all three at the same time. In response, Lance plays the same in sequence—an arpeggio. Keith snorts, then switches to another chord. Lance again plays the corresponding arpeggio. Their melody is elementary, but something about it soothes the fraying of Lance’s nerves. They continue, until Keith’s right hand plays C Minor, and Lance’s arpeggio lands his thumb over Keith’s.

The touch sparks. They both freeze, the music echoing into silence until all Lance can hear is the rapid thumping of his own heart. Only now does Keith seem to notice how close they are.

He has to know. He can’t _not_ know what Keith’s thinking.

“Hey, man,” he starts, his tongue almost catching between his teeth. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Last night, I—”

“It’s okay,” Keith interrupts. His fingers move down, B flat Major, encompassing Lance’s hand. “You’re not… wrong.”

“What?” Lance blurts. “About the touch, or—”

“Shut up. You’re a touchy guy. I’m not…opposed to touch. This doesn’t have to be weird.” He threads their fingers together. Lance thinks he might actually fucking die.

“And the—”

“Lance.”

Keith forgets the piano. He takes Lance’s jaw between his palms and angles him his way. Lance can see the flecks of deep violet in Keith’s eyes, framed by eyelashes and those dark, furrowed eyebrows.

“Lance, I get it. I’m the first guy you’ve ever really been with, and that’s because we’re in a fake relationship. There’s no other option.”

It’s Lance’s turn to furrow his eyebrows. He can’t follow where Keith is going.

“What about—”

“Don’t make this weird. We’re both available, and there’s no way we can go to an outside source. If you want to, and I’m not…” He scrunches his nose, parsing through a web of thoughts Lance can’t figure out. “I’m not saying I’m touch-starved. That’s dumb. But…I’m giving you permission.”

Lance searches his eyes, but all he finds is open honesty.

“I’m not following,” Lance says, his words hoarse. “What you’re saying is…”

“That you obviously want experience with men, and I can help you. So, I’m giving you permission.”

“For…a hug?” Lance squeaks out.

 “Whatever you want.”

His voice comes out low, that tone he brandishes in the movies. Come to think of it, his intense gaze is something Lance has seen before. _A Royal Christmas._ A royal fuck up, is what this is.

He contemplates Keith’s offer. The churning returns to his stomach, but he pushes it aside. It’s dumb to think that Keith could want— _obviously_ he doesn’t want… Whatever. Lance can handle this.

Keith tilts his head to the side in question, startling Lance out of his careening thoughts.

“Well?”

“Well,” Lance echoes.

He lets his right hand come to rest on Keith’s hip. A ghost of a touch at first, but more confident when Keith doesn’t flinch.

Keith breathes out. His steady gaze drops to Lance’s lips. And stays.

“Consider this another lesson,” he murmurs, and he leans in.  

Lance’s skin singes and sizzles at every spot they touch. Keith’s breath ghosts over him, a sensation steadily growing more familiar, and the realization hits that he missed to his bones kissing Keith like the first time. And he’ll do anything to get it back again.  

They’re really going to do this. If it’s what Keith wants, and what Lance so desperately craves, then…

The door bursts open. As Hunk says, “I think someone else has been eating your cookies, so—” the world around them rushes into focus. Lance jolts into action, scooting so far away he almost tumbles off the bench entirely. Dissonant notes clang where his hand slams against the keys in his getaway.

“…So, I got you some of the pop tarts I know you like so much. But I guess—”

“Thanks a bunch, Hunk! You’re a real pal,” Lance cuts in. He makes to get up, but Allura waves her hands to stop him and takes out her phone.

“Wait, this is adorable! Coran will love this,” she gushes. “Lance, play him ‘Reunion.’”

Lance freezes, but Keith only smiles and nods for Lance to play. Lance sticks out his tongue and repositions himself, resting both hands on the keys.

As his fingers dance and his mouth finds the words his brain is too shorted out to remember, Keith watches. That soft smile returns, settling on Lance instead of the piano.

Halfway through the chorus, Keith glances back at the camera phone, then rests his head on Lance’s shoulder. Double fucking whammy. Lance squeezes his eyes shut momentarily, breathes, and continues. 

 

. . .

 

The only member of Voltron who doesn’t care for a plane ride is Hunk. Granted, they fly so many times the appeal of a jet streaking across the Atlantic has almost (almost) lost its luster, but Hunk is the only one who visibly pales at the idea of voluntarily climbing inside a metal death tube and hurtling through the air thousands of feet above the ground.

“Coran, I don’t feel so good,” he moans, curling up in a seat next to the center aisle. Lance lounges in the window seat across from him, chin in his hand as he watches the puffy white clouds below them. He turns his gaze to Hunk in mock disgust, who just moans again.

“What do you need, my boy? Tylenol? Pepto Bismol? Xanax?” Coran asks, already rifling through his bag.

“Tums is fine,” Hunk squeaks.

“Ah. Well. It seems I don’t have Tums.” Coran turns out his empty medicine bag with a frown.

“At least you tried.”

“Here, Hunk,” Keith says from next to Lance. He rifles through the bag below his seat and produces a small bottle of the multi-colored medicine.

“Keith? I love you. You understand the way to a man’s heart is over-the-counter medicine.” He grins weakly as he takes the Tums, and Keith settles back in his seat with satisfaction.

“It worked on Lance,” he says, to which the whole band chuckles before remembering the presence of another party. Romelle. Hunk pops a tablet into his mouth and sinks quietly into his seat.

Technically, no one else is around. They _could_ tell Romelle. She’s a close friend, anyway. What’s the harm? Romelle knows enough industry secrets to publish a book, and she’ll never let any of them past her lips.

Across the aisle, Pidge and Allura cycle quickly through a game of Go Fish with a deck of hand-drawn anime cards generously gifted by Matt. Romelle practically bursts with a smile she bites back where she’s sandwiched between them, eyes no longer on the game.

“You have any Narutos?” Pidge asks.

“Go Fish. Do you happen to have any Kagomes?”

Pidge slides over two Kagome cards.

“Stupid Inuyasha,” she grumbles. “Alright. Edward Elric?”

“I didn’t mind Inuyasha,” Romelle pipes up. Pidge glares at her.

Lance tunes out their conversation in favor of poking Keith in the side. They haven’t seen each other since the last rehearsal, alright? Lance is allowed to touch.

“Did you see the latest Kosmo post on Instagram?” he asks. Keith scrunches his nose, then digs out his phone.

“Oh! Kosmo! That’s your dog, right?” Romelle says, her eyes twinkling. “He has such a presence!”

“See! That’s what I mean!” Lance gasps, sitting up. “Romelle, I’m trying to convince him to make Kosmo a dog Instagram.”

“Lance—”

“That is such a good idea!” Romelle gushes. “Keith, your dog is very popular.”

Keith pulls it up on his phone, a photo of Kosmo Keith sent him, paws up in the air and face all goofy. It’s already one of Lance’s most popular posts, just underneath all three shirtless beach photos. Keith sighs in contemplation.

“Just admit it, Keith. I’m wearing you down,” Lance says. He waves a hand like he’s introducing Hollywood’s newest starlet. “Come on! Think about it. Kosmo underscore Kogane.”

Keith slumps in his seat and tugs the beanie farther down his ears. If he frowns any harder, Lance might think he’s actually upset about this. Instead, he grins and slumps, too, matching their postures.

“Dog Instagram?” he begs one more time, knitting his eyebrows together in his best pout. Keith turns the frown on him. Too bad, because all Lance wants to do is kiss it. He almost leans in to do so, but a blip of turbulence jostles the plane, bringing it into focus. Lance hides a cough in his shoulder and resettles into his seat.

“Fine. But only because you’re—”

“Insufferable. Like I haven’t heard your unoriginal insults before. Hand your phone over, Keith,” He holds out his palm. Reluctantly, Keith obliges. Their hands brush in the exchange—not that Lance is concentrating hard enough to notice or anything.

While Lance fiddles with Keith’s phone, spending at least half the flight to New York City finding the perfect pictures and filters for Instagram’s newest dog, @Kosmo_Kogane, the rest of the plane hums gently around them. Hunk, keeping his insides in. Coran, snoring behind a face mask. Pidge, Allura, and Romelle, playing Matt’s weird cards.

And if sometimes Lance catches Romelle glancing over and presses subtly more into Keith’s side, no one mentions it. Besides, it’s the perfect excuse for why, halfway through the flight, he rests his head on Keith’s shoulder and watches him scroll through half-lidded eyes.

He steadfastly ignores everything but Keith’s touch as he rests his own head on top of Lance’s. Keith said it was okay, anyway. No one else needs to know about that. He just closes his eyes, and…

 

. . .

 

Points of contact: hands, shoulders, ear. Hands, where Keith threaded their fingers together as they stepped out of the van. Shoulders, where they press close together on their way towards the crowd of teens pushing against the metal fencing. Ear, where Keith brushes his lips, whispering, “Are they seriously always like that?”

Lance pulls away to see Keith’s constipated expression, palpable even under his dark sunglasses.

“Come on, Keith, loosen up,” Lance says with a nudge. “Wave a little! For the fans!”

“They’re your fans,” he says. Still, he begrudgingly perches his sunglasses on the crown of his head, pushing his bangs back with them, and nods curtly in their direction.

“Yeah, but you’re officially known to every single one of them, and you’re escorting me into the building.” Lance tug Keith down the path and waves again. The rest of Voltron trail behind them, Allura blowing kisses and Pidge throwing up peace signs. You know, the usual.

Coran orders them not to stop for anyone, so they shout greetings on the way to the building. But out of the corner of his eye, Lance spots a flash of pink-purple-blue. When he finds the flash again, it’s in the form of a flag draped over the fencing.

“Lance!” the girl behind the flag yells, shaking the fabric.

“Can I stop for one?” Lance asks Coran as he scurries ahead of the band. Coran whines, but when Lance catches Allura’s gaze, she nods with a twinkle in her eye.

Keith lets himself be dragged to the fence despite Coran’s now vocal protests. Lance ignores it all, making a beeline for the girl.

“Hey!” Lance says brightly. “What’s your name?”

“I—uh—holy shit!” she stutters. She slaps a hand over her mouth, dropping one corner of the flag.

“That’s a funny name. Definitely memorable.”

Keith snorts and rolls his eyes—well, Lance imagines he does.

“No, it’s, um, Nadia. And I have a flag for you! Here!” She gathers it up and holds it out, her wet eyes shining expectantly.

Lance cocks his head. “You want me to sign it?”

“No, for you to keep! It’s got, um. It’s got a bunch of Twitter handles from Voltron fans. To tell you we support you.” Her words tumble out of her mouth, so fast and slurred Lance can barely understand them.

But when he does, his jaw drops. After a stunned moment, he takes the flag and holds it before himself, studying the cool hues and little silver sharpie marks now visible over the back.

“You in there, Lance?” Keith asks, squeezing Lance’s waist.

“Yeah,” Lance breathes. He looks back at Nadia, who might faint. “This is nuts. Thank you.”

“Yeah! No—no problem. Thank you. For everything.”

“Lance!” a voice calls from behind them. He glances over his shoulder to find the rest of the band and Coran gathered at the entrance. Again, though, Allura smiles at him and nods.

“We’re not allowed to do hugs,” Lance says quickly, pressing the flag into his chest. “But do you want a hug?”

“Yes!” Nadia cries.

Keith lets go so Lance can step forward and draw Nadia into a tight embrace over the metal fence. When they part, real tears wet her cheeks.

“We gotta go. Thanks again.” Lance gestures to the flag and back to Nadia. With that, he wraps his other arm around Keith’s shoulders and leads them away, back to the band.

The cacophony of the people fades away as the band and their entourage enter the building. An attendant descends upon Coran and directs them farther into the ant farm of hallways. Left turn, right turn, then a paper sign plastered to a wall with their destination: “Musical Guest: Voltron. Green Room.”

“Hair and makeup is soon,” the attendant says, checking her watch. “Then soundcheck and you’re on.”

Quick as she appeared, she flits away, leaving everyone to pile inside and feel around the space for themselves. Lance stands in the center with the flag as they dive onto sunken couches and check out the amenities. Pink, purple, blue.

“I can’t believe Galra actually got them to sign our rider,” Hunk says at the table of snacks. “Who asks for hot nachos from a specific bodega in Hell’s Kitchen and actually gets them?”

“Hunk,” Lance says, tearing his eyes away from the fabric, “we’re about to make them so much money. Enjoy those nachos. You earned them.”

“Lance? You’re so right.” Hunk wipes away a fake tear and piles the nachos onto a spare plate.

“What did she give you, Lance?” Allura asks, peering over his shoulder.

“Oh, this?” Lance stares at it again, something akin to pride welling in his chest. “It’s a flag.”

“I can see that, dummy,” Pidge says, but she grins all the same. “It’s your flag.”

“It is.” When Lance turns around, he doesn’t expect Keith’s same small smile, the glint in his eyes. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Yeah. Your whole face,” Keith says.

Lance sticks out his tongue and sets about carefully folding the flag and laying it over the couch arm, far away from Hunk’s hot nachos. There it stays, a little reminder of some fucking good in this world. His Google alerts can ping all they want, but a bi flag handed to him by a fan? Maybe he’ll find her Twitter sometime later and say thanks. Sendak won’t kill him for that one.

 

. . .

 

“Check, one, two.”

“Check, chick, chack!”

“Check. I’m standing here at the microphone, checking the levels. There’s Pidge, playing when she’s not supposed to.”

“Lance, please. Do something normal for once,” part of the Voltron crew says from where they stand between the stage and the barrier, clipboard in hand.

“…And over there is Hunk. He’s wearing a yellow headband today, just for a little variety. Check, one, two. Allura, have I told you yet today I appreciate you?”

Allura giggles and nods.

“Good! Because I do. Check. And over _there_ , lingering in the shadows like an angsty teenage vampire, is Keith. Looking fine as always. Do a little spin, Keith. Teach me how to get jeans that tight on, because I’m pretty sure it’s impossible.”

As Keith flips the bird, someone from the sound booth yells, “All good, Lance McClain!”

“Thank you, fine sound person. Are you a part of IATSE? Because I-oughta-see a pay raise in your future.”

From the drum set behind him comes a _ba dum tss._

Lance runs over to the raised platform the drum sits on to high five Pidge. The man standing beside the stage shakes his head and walks away.

“We’re going to run through ‘The Hunted’ now!” another voice announces, and the band repositions themselves in formation. Lance in the middle, guitar around his shoulder. Hunk to his left with the golden bass. Allura to his right, standing tall with her guitar. And Pidge behind him, most likely twirling her drumsticks.

The outdoor venue, built specifically for _Today with Luxia_ , only holds a maximum 15 thousand or so fans. The rest of the millions that tune in to see the show come from the television or Internet streaming. As Lance bangs on the guitar and belts the lyrics, a crew checks the cameras arching over the floor and bouncing around the edge of the stage on the shoulders of men. 

Lance follow the line of one of them until his eyes fall on the wings of the stage, where Keith still stands, half tucked into the shadows and half illuminated by the sharp early afternoon sun. He looks content like this, face almost expressionless, but in a way Lance now recognizes as Comfortable Keith. He watches as Coran steps up to him and says something he can’t hear. With a raised eyebrow, Keith takes out his phone and holds it up. Ah, a recording. Smart marketing move, Coran.

Lance winks at the camera no doubt filming him and launches into some theatrics. A swing of the guitar here, a roll of his hips there. Perfect.

Keith pans over to the others for a few more seconds before stopping and putting the phone away, resuming his previous comfortable expression. No, that won’t do. Not when Lance wants so bad to impress him.

A metaphorical light bulb bursts above Lance’s head.

He sidles up to the microphone for the next line, closer than before. All his training with microphones yells at him to keep the correct distance. Fuck that. Locking his gaze onto Keith, he leans in close as he sings the next line. Keith raises an eyebrow. Lance’s lips graze the grille and his hips roll again. Keith shifts from one foot to the other, then lets his gaze trail up Lance’s body until it meets his eyes. No more Comfortable Keith. Lance can feel the heat of his expression from halfway across the stage.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Lance backs away from the microphone with another wink and a grin.

Keith turns around and disappears into the wings, leaving Lance flustered onstage.

“Alright, I think that’s all we need,” the sound guy says. Allura and Hunk profusely thank the team through their own microphones and several of the crew swarm the stage to take their instruments.

As Lance dumbly hands his guitar to a crew member, he accidentally makes eye contact with Pidge. Who only looks at him curiously.

They make their way off stage, leaving the crew to set it up the rest of the way. The actual show’s only in a few hours.

“Where did Keith go?” Hunk asks.

“Dunno,” Lance shrugs. “Wanna go eat some nachos?”

“Yes, please!”

Between soundcheck and show time, a million interviewers crowd themselves into the green room, perching on the couch opposite the band with voice recorders and notebooks.

“Anne, from _Roar Magazine_ ,” a woman says, fiddling with her recorder.

“Carlos, _People,_ ” a man with a suspiciously bushy beard says.

“I’m Huda, for _16_ ,” another woman says, poised with a pink fluffy pen that matches her pink headscarf. “How are you guys feeling ahead of the album release?”

The interviews continue like they always do. Some bullshit questions like “What’s the weirdest thing a fan has ever done?” and “What’s it like to be on the road with your three best friends?” and “Jesus Christ, will you stop staring at Keith and pay some attention?”

Okay, not that last one. That’s Pidge—not verbally, thank fuck, but when she elbows him harshly to tear his eyes from Keith in the opposite corner of the room, he can feel the thought telepathically banging against his brain.

Huda laughs uncomfortably and moves on to her next question, something Lance doesn’t hear in favor of returning immediately to watching Keith watch him. He’s sprawled on a folding chair next to Coran, lazily tracking Lance’s every move. It’s unnerving, is what it is. The way he follows Lance’s animated hands, his laugh as Hunk replies to a question with a pun.

“… lucky as we are within two years. We’re extremely thankful to have the supportive fans we do. Right, Lance?”

“Huh?” Lance tears his eyes away from Keith, back to Huda. Pidge elbows him again, sharp enough to make him hiss. “Ow! I mean, super supportive!”

The interviewers slip out of the green room. Some worker at the venue says something about a group of kids from some celebrity who want a picture, and the whole team crowds down the hall into another room.

On the way, Keith runs the tips of his fingers down Lance’s forearm, so light he almost convinces himself he’s imagined it. The blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smirk on Keith’s lips confirms otherwise. Lance presses his mouth shut and glances away, willing the fire on his skin to die down.

The kids are nice. They’re fine. They gush about Hunk’s headbands, Lance’s snapchat, Allura’s beautiful hair. Maybe they mention the music. By the time all the pictures have been taken and they leave again, heading towards the gathering crowd for _Today with Luxia_ , their cue has crept far closer, and Keith’s taken to staring at him again.

It comes to a head when Lance ducks away to the crew’s catering table and snags a nacho—generic and lukewarm at best. Pidge follows him, tugging at the sleeves of her performance shirt.

“If he looks at you any harder, I think your skin’s gonna catch on fire. Like a magnifying glass on a fucking ant. You’re the ant, Lance,” she hisses, poking him in the shoulder.

“Hush, Pidge,” he whispers back, stuffing a nacho into her open mouth. “You’re the ant who can’t reach the top cabinets without a step ladder.”

She swallows it and opens her mouth for another retort when someone painfully familiar laughs, and Lance whips around to find Keith chuckling with Allura, her hand soft on his elbow.

Keith catches his eye, then lets his gaze slide slowly over Lance’s from, from his sneakers to his lips.

“I honestly have to vomit,” Pidge says, but it barely registers.

Lance knows what this is. He pulls one move, and Keith knows exactly how to one up him. And if Lance pulls the next one, what is there left to do but…

"I gotta—" Lance jerks a thumb behind him and backs away. When he makes it out the door, he spins around and books it down the hallway for the green room bathroom.

Lance grips the ceramic counter and gulps a deep breath. He looks up to find his own blown pupils, lined with brown and framed by his stiff hair.

“Focus, Lance,” he chastises himself. “Don’t think about that!”

“Think about what?” a voice interrupts him. Lance jumps when Keith slips through the door, leaning against it to shut it again.

“Nothing!” Lance chokes out. “Absolutely nothing. I just needed a moment. You know, with how overwhelming TV is and all. I don’t—I don’t—”

Keith watches Lance flounder through the mirror, a smirk on the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing, huh?” He pushes himself off the door, closer to Lance, close enough to bracket him with either hand on the counter beside Lance’s. He stands on his tiptoes until he can speak right into Lance’s ear with unbreakable eye contact.

“I can think of a few things.”

The moment suspends. Lance’s fingers dig into the lip of the sink as Keith just _stares_ at him, half-lidded, his breath ghosting Lance’s neck.

Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Absolutely chill. Just freezing.

But searing hot, right along where Keith is almost pressed up against him. The heat feels distinctly different to whatever is behind them, a precipice the next move will send them tumbling over.

“Lance?” Keith’s raspy voice breaks the silence of the restroom. Lance can’t bring himself to reply, just watches as Keith leans in just a bit closer. Closer to Lance. Close enough to press his lips to one of his vertebrae. “I really made Lance McClain speechless.”

“You,” Lance stutters. “You should be rewarded.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, and that, for whatever reason. That’s when the dam breaks.

Lance turns around in Keith’s arms as Keith takes his hands off the counter and shoves them up his tank, digging his lower back into the edge. The heady sensation of Keith leaning up to press his lips against Lance’s whites out everything in Lance’s brain except Keith. Keith's hands hot on his skin, Keith's waist where Lance grasps for purchase, Keith's lips, soft like a celebrity Chapstick testimonial, bruising him.

Finally, he finds it in himself to push off the counter and give back what Keith's giving him. They stumble backwards and Keith's back hits the tile wall. The motion has him bite on Lance's lower lip, and, God, it's all fucking over for him. Literally nothing has felt better than this.

Lance's mouth falls open as he slumps against Keith, their bodies lining up head to toe. He buries his hands in Keith's hair, tugging on just the right side of harsh when Keith bites him again, and he doesn't miss the soft moan that echoes in the restroom. Oh, okay. Lance can work with that.

They're so wrapped up in each other they miss the footsteps in the green room outside, but the corresponding "Lance? Keith? We gotta go!" is hard to mistake as towards anyone else. As the doorknob jiggles, they break apart, both panting slightly.

Abruptly, Keith grabs Lance by the front of his shirt and yanks him into the water closet, locking the door behind them. Someone steps into the restroom as Keith presses a hand over Lance's mouth, silencing the confusion on the tip of his tongue.

"Lance?" Hunk asks. He walks around the perimeter. After a moment, Hunk's boots stop right outside the door, barely a foot away. They hold their breath, looking wide-eyed at each other, until Hunk shuffles away and the door closes again.

Keith draws his hand away and collapses against the wall with a huff.

"Holy shit," Lance says, because what else is there to say? "Every single time--"

"You should go," Keith interrupts him, unlocking the door and stepping outside. "They're looking for you."

"Yeah," Lance falters. He follows Keith out, wiping his mouth and readjusting his top in the mirror. There, just as the stylists intended. As he runs his hands through his hair, his gaze slides to Keith, still eying him where he leans against the door. Lance opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Keith beats him to it.

"You look good in tank tops," he says. As if it explains the saliva they just exchanged in the green room bathroom.

"Tell me something I don't know," Lance replies.

Keith rolls his eyes and gestures for Lance to come closer. He obeys, following Keith's beckoning hand until he can trail it down Lance's chest, resting it right above his navel.

"I lied the first time we met," he hums. "Kind of. I haven't been to a Voltron concert, but my friend showed me a video she took of you. You wore a shirt just like this." His fingers trail up again, carving a line of heat from his stomach to his bare collarbone. "And I couldn't stop thinking about it for the rest of the day."

With that, Keith twists the doorknob and falls through, leaving Lance frozen in place on the other side. He disappears from the green room without so much as another glance.

"So unfair!" Lance huffs to the empty room.

He is _so_ going to get back at him for that one.

He refrains from rubbing the frustration out of his eyes as he stalks out of the bathroom. At the last moment, he spots the flag on the corner of the couch. Pink, purple, blue. Lance snags it as he leaves.

Minutes before show time, a stagehand thrusts Lance's electric guitar into his chest. Keith lurks nearby in the wing of the stage, arms crossed and hair ruffled.

"Are you feeling alright?" Allura asks, adjusting the strap on her own guitar to fit over the bedazzled shoulder of her pink dress. Her silvery-white hair falls in tight curls, framing the bright hot pink slashed across her cheekbones.

"Ready to kick some ass Voltron style,” Lance replies, throwing in a wink for good measure.

Allura smiles and says "That’s our Lance” with a squeeze of his hand.

"Two minutes," someone calls.

Lance peeks out from the side of the stage and sees the black screen hung at the back of the stage, Pidge's green drums on a raised platform, and the microphone at the end of a short runway, already set up at Lance's height. Beyond the microphone are the heads of thousands of people and cameras ready to stream to a million more.

His eyes slide back over to Keith, finding his steady gaze already on him.

"Hey, hold this," Lance says, holding out the neatly folded flag.

Keith does, his fingers brushing Lance's wrist as he does.

"One minute!"

"Watch me.” Lance waggles of his eyebrows. He backs away a foot, two feet, letting his eyes trail down Keith's roughed up hair and disheveled shirt. He grins and winks.

"Thirty seconds!"

The outdoor venue lights die down, letting only the feeble light of the dying sun into the wings of the stage. The roar of the crowd reaches deafening volumes. Keith keeps watching him with those narrow dark eyes and set jaw.

With seconds to go, Keith strides forward, drags Lance down by the collar of his tank, and kisses him.

"Don't fuck it up," he mumbles against Lance, barely audible over the screams. Distantly, Lance hears the countdown, knows the images of the Voltron robot flash on the otherwise dark screen.

"You think you're so cool, but I know that's Keith speak for good luck," he says.

"And you're on!" a stagehand cries out.

Keith pecks him quick once more and pushes him away. Dutifully, Lance whirls around and follows the rest of the band into the lights. Three songs. Two more that won't be aired on television. With Keith still warm on his lips, he takes his position in front of the microphone and leans in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. Just like I can't write the fake relationship AU of my dreams without a practice kissing scene, I can't write one without the godliness of friends with benefits. It's integral. It's my _favorite_. I can't let anyone think less of me. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3 I appreciate every single kudos and comment. You can share [this chapter post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/185118368976/love-song-in-c-minor-chapter-seven), and talk to me on my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he opens the door again, Keith is in the same position, curled up with his book at the head of the bed. He glances up to Lance in his pajamas, and Lance might imagine it, but his face softens as he sets the book aside. 
> 
> “No Adam and Shiro,” Lance muses, taking a step towards the bed. 
> 
> “No Hunk or the rest of the band,” Keith says. Lance’s knees hit the edge of the bed. Somehow, it’s vastly more intimate than anything they’ve done before. Just the two of them, one hotel room.
> 
> Holy shit, they’re alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on that train of uploading at a bad time but still within the month so yay! Will I ever learn to finish tasks at reasonable times? Probably not. But at least it's here.
> 
> Also, guess who finally finished the playlist so far! [Here is the post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/185659997181/the-love-song-in-c-minor-playlist) with links to the playlist. This chapter's song is No Control by One Direction, one of my all time favorite songs and a direct inspiration for so much of this fic. I struggled to settle on one chapter to put this to, but I guess it's this one ;). 
> 
> Also also, I talk about a change I've made to previous chapters in [this post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/185416284141/while-im-writing-and-editing-these-next-few). I've decided to change Lance's family from living in Cuba to living in Miami, Florida. I can't justify talking about the politics of the entertainment industry while ignoring the politics of Cuba and United States relations, since this fic takes place specifically in the real world in 2015. I've made minor adjustments in previous chapters and chapters going forward. 
> 
> Fair warning, there _is _a reason this fic is rated Mature with the possibility of upping to Explicit in the future, so keep that in mind.__
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> _Alright, this baby is 9.2k, and I hope you're looking forward to it!_  
> 

@hunksorangeheadband – did anyone see what happened with the flag?? I can’t find a video of it I think they cut it out.

@voltronadia – lance stopped next to me and I gave him the bi flag at luxia this morning!! He gave me a HUG and he smells so nice. My life is made

@pidgeotto – @hunksorangeheadband – here’s the url youtube.com/W7fjjf9 he went to the side stage to get a bi flag and security took it away from him again! It’s not really in focus but I’m p sure that’s it.

@voltronadia – @pidgeotto what?? ): why did they do that?

@VoltronUpdates – keith and lance kissing for good luck right before the concert! Sorry for the shit lighting lol. [Attached: Image of Lance and Keith on the wings of the stage sharing a good luck kiss.]

“You don’t understand what went wrong, do you?” the cool voice of Sendak asks, crackling slightly over the phone.

“I don’t,” Lance bites out. He ignores the rest of the car’s curious looks and stares steadfast out the window at the passing skyscrapers and interweaving pedestrians. “You have to explain this one to me. I know I’m not the smartest cookie, but—”

“Accepting the flag from a fan is one thing. Bringing it onto a televised performance is another entirely. We’re not advertising this, Lance.”

“Advertising what? My sexuality?”

“Yes. Precisely. We’ll discuss this again later.”

Lance opens his mouth to argue, but the phone clicks. He blinks at the blank screen for a moment before shoving it into his pocket and turning resolutely back towards the window.

No one else utters a word. Not the band, not Romelle, not Coran. Keith rests a firm hand over his knee, his thumb digging into the denim, the only thing that lets him exhale. Outside the car, travelling slow enough in traffic to potentially stop for a shitty cart hot dog, a woman drags her son through the crowd. A man with a briefcase speaks hurriedly into a cellphone. Two women hold hands as they pass by the spilling light of a shop front. Must be nice to be them. Must be nice to be—not here.

He takes another breath and tears his gaze away to Keith’s hand instead. When he looks up to find Hunk’s concerned, warm eyes on him, he plasters on a smile and says, “So, that bass swing during ‘Crystal Venom,’ huh?”

The rest of the car ride passes uneventfully.

When they arrive at the hotel through the back entrance and Coran hands out room assignments, Lance blanches at the cards he hands Keith and him.

“I usually room with Hunk,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Oh, we’ve discussed this without you,” Pidge says. “If you room with Keith, then I can room with Hunk, and Romelle gets to experience Allura’s snoring.”

Allura shoves Pidge’s shoulder, but they both have a suspicious playful glint in their eyes. Lance squints at them, but Keith’s already walking away, duffle bag hiked over his shoulder.

“I don’t like your faces,” Lance mutters.

“What happened to ‘Allura is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen?’” Allura asks, innocently twirling a lock of silver hair with her index finger.

“Keith took that position,” Pidge replies.

“I don’t like them!” Lance repeats, then whirls away and follows Keith to the elevators.

On any other day, if Lance hadn’t done something stupid and Sendak hadn’t chewed him out for it, the prospect of haring a room with Keith would send him into a Code Red. Now, as Keith inserts the card ito the door, the green room bathroom barely crosses his mind.

…And then he follows Keith inside, hellbent on just dumping his stuff and faceplanting into a pillow, and sees that, oh, there’s only one bed. King size, enormous and enticing, but only _one._

He’s going to murder them.

Keith doesn’t seem to register the dilemma, only pausing for a second before he drops his bag on the carpet, digs a few things out, and heads towards the bathroom. As soon as the door shuts, Lance smacks a hand over his mouth to muffle a long groan.

He can’t deal with this. He just got chewed the fuck out and now _this_ and—

There’s only so much space in Lance’s brain, so he’ll think about this one when Keith comes out of the bathroom. Or maybe not at all. Maybe if he takes the bed first, Keith will just be forced to make the decision himself, and it’s not on Lance whether they share the bed or Keith sleeps on the floor (It’s not on him to think about which one he wants, either).

He burrows fully clothed under the covers and squeezes his eyes shut. After a moment, he remembers the cool plastic case of the phone in his hand.

He brings it to his face and the screen lights up to a photo of his niece and nephew. A smile wrenches itself out of Lance at their beaming faces, half-smothered with Nadia’s birthday cake. That was a few months ago, sent to him by his brother Marco with the accompanying text _Nadia was wondering if you could Facetime her today! You available?_

He considers looking up the flight prices from New York City to Miami. The money doesn’t even matter; he _has_ money now. But does he have a disguise, does he have the time, does he… Blah, blah, blah. You know, all these logistics and duties that keep him from actually booking the flight.

Instead, he opens Twitter and searches _Voltron Today with Luxia._

A few people have tweeted about the performance and the new single. Many, many more people retweet and tweet again about the flag, along with a grainy photo of Keith and Lance kissing backstage. Lance taps on the photo to bring it into focus. He pinches it with his thumbs and zooms in. Then out. Then in again.

The door reopens, and Lance shuts the screen off and shoves the phone under a pillow. He forces himself to relax and feign sleep. He listens to Keith shuffle around until, finally, some sort of silence, though Lance can tell Keith hasn’t gotten into the bed yet.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he worms himself even more into the sheets, ready for actual sleep to overtake him. Until—

“Lance, I know you’re not asleep,” Keith says. “I’m pretty sure you can’t actually sleep without you weird nighttime beauty routine.”

Lance shuffles around to face Keith, who leans against the wall with his arms crossed.

“What do you know about my nighttime routine?” Lance mumbles.

“You made a video about it and posted it on the Voltron YouTube channel,” Keith deadpans. “What did Sendak say to you?”

Lance whines and pulls the heavy hotel blanket over his nose. With a huff, Keith sits on the edge of the bed, yanking the sheets down to his waist.

“Keith!” Lance shrieks.

“If I can’t ignore you, you can’t ignore me.”

“That wasn’t the deal—”

“I will drag you out myself if it gets you to do your stupid moisturizers.”

When Lance tries to pull the blankets back, Keith grabs his hands and presses them into the mattress. All thoughts of Sendak wipe away, replaced by the sensation of Keith’s hands and realization of their delicate position.

Lance looks up at Keith’s set frown. “You have a really aggressive way of caring.”

“You think this is about me caring?” Keith’s eyes narrow. “I just don’t want to kiss you until you’ve brushed your teeth.”

“Wha—Keith!”

Keith abruptly lets him go and hops off the bed, grabbing a book from his bag and collapsing onto the other side.

“So?” He peeks over the top of the pages. Lance’s cheeks burn.

“Right, right, okay,” he huffs. “I’ll go…do that.”

He gathers his pajamas and supplies and disappears into the bathroom. And as Lance pulls his ratty Havana souvenir shirt over his head and lines up his collection of travel size bottles, Keith’s words come over him.

He opens the bathroom door.

“Wait, were you serious?”

Keith sighs and puts down the book. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Lance, but we’re kind of past that point.”

“Huh.” He thinks it over. “I guess we are.”

He slowly closes the door again. Then proceeds to minorly freak out. Wash his face. Brush his teeth (if he scrubs extra hard, no one is there to tease him for it).

When he opens the door again, Keith is in the same position, curled up with his book at the head of the bed. He glances up to Lance in his pajamas, and Lance might imagine it, but his face softens as he sets the book aside.

“No Adam and Shiro,” Lance muses, taking a step towards the bed.

“No Hunk or the rest of the band,” Keith says. Lance’s knees hit the edge of the bed. Somehow, it’s vastly more intimate than anything they’ve done before. Just the two of them, one hotel room.

Holy shit, they’re alone.

“Yup. Yup, none of them.” Lance wrings his hands. He looks into Keith’s eyes, suddenly closer than before as he shuffles up the bed.

Keith settles back on his heels in front of Lance, close enough that Lance only needs to lean down to close the distance.

“You’ve come a long way,” he remarks, placing a hand on either of Lance’s hips.

“From?”

“From the Grammy’s.” He slides his hands up Lance’s shirt to his shoulders. “But I kind of miss that side of you.”

Lance scoffs, and Keith tugs him gently down.

“It’s because you’ve shown your true jerk self to me,” Lance says.

“Yeah, right. Are you nervous?”

“You never make me nervous.” Lance is nervous. He’s always fucking nervous. He’s been nervous since the first moment they laid eyes on each other. But God-fucking-dammit if he doesn’t want it to never stop.

Keith cocks his head to the side and pulls him down the rest of the way until he stumbles and balances himself with his hands on Keith’s thighs.

“I prefer you in this stupid tourist shirt over anything else I’ve seen you in,” he says against Lance’s lips.

“That’s a bold ass lie.” But Keith’s words do their job and send a shiver down his spine.

“Okay, maybe,” Keith starts to say, but Lance swallows the rest of his words with a kiss.

…A kiss immediately interrupted by Lance’s phone on the other bed, buzzing incessantly where he’s shoved it under the pillow.

Lance groans and breaks away, diving onto the bed to end the call and hastily replace it. “Who was that?” Keith asks.

“Just my mom. Now—”

“Why is your mom calling you at midnight?”

“Who knows? Not important. Let’s focus on what _is_ important. You, over here.”

Keith just sort of gapes, and Lance grins mischievously.

“Now who’s nervous?” He makes his voice as low and sultry as possible and spreads out over the bed, one hand on his hip. “Come on over, Keithy boy. Rock my world.”

That springs Keith into action, and he shakes his head as he crawls back up the bed.

“I hate it when you call me that,” he grumbles, laying down next to Lance.

Lance shuffles until they mirror each other. A yawn overtakes him, reminding him of their ridiculously early flight and the show they’ve already done. Keith runs his fingers through Lance’s hairspray-sticky hair, standing it on end. Lance nuzzles into it automatically, feeling a softer smile tug at his corners of his mouth. He hasn’t really seen this look on Keith before, and while the intensity of his gaze prickles, he kind of wants to bask in it.

But not when there’s a much more pressing matter in the shape of Keith’s intensely kissable lips, currently not kissing him.

“Are you going to kiss me or just stare at me?” Lance asks impatiently. “’Cause you can’t do both.”

Keith rolls his eyes, pushes Lance back into the pillows by his shoulders, and climbs on top to straddle his hips. At once Lance’s breath leaves him, and now it’s his turn to stare in wonder at Keith above him.

“That’s a challenge,” Keith says.

“And that sounds creepy— _mph.”_

Okay, maybe Lance rescinds his earlier position. Instead of killing them, he’ll give them thank-you gifts. Because this, like, making out with Keith in a king bed thing? Unbeatable.

Lance might be getting too used to this, to Keith. To the drag of their lips together, the way it sends his heart into offbeat syncopations. Keith kisses hard, he’s figured out. Like it’s how he breathes. He presses Lance into the mattress, his hands trailing over Lance’s shoulders, down his chest, leaving a searing path behind them.

Lance gasps against Keith’s lips when he rucks his shirt up, planting his hands firmly against his skin. In response, Keith bites his lip, and they both groan.

“I want—mph—you to— _Keith—_ take this off,” Lance manages to get out as he yanks at the bottom of Keith’s shirt. If this asshole is going to make him shirtless, he will do unto him the same.

Keith huffs and leans back, pulling off his shirt in one swift motion as Lance does the same before leaning back in immediately.

“Wait, wait! You won’t let me admire you?” Lance says, shoving him back.

“I’m kind of busy,” Keith argues, but he stays up all the same.

Lance whistles and places an open palm on Keith’s defined abs. Like, the guy is paid to look hot in movies. Lance is laying where thousands would kill to be. He drags his fingers down over his smooth skin, almost lit with the low warm bedside lamp, then up and to Keith’s bicep.

“You definitely don’t have boobs,” he hums. “But I can get behind this. You look…”

Keith grins, the cocky bastard, and captures the rest of Lance’s sentence with his mouth. Pretty fair, because for all his songwriting prowess, Lance can’t muster a comparison to match what he sees.

Keith leaves Lance’s mouth and presses kisses along his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. At this point, Lance’s touch archive includes his whole upper half, because Keith is so handsy Lance wouldn’t believe it if you told him a month ago.

“No—Jesus, babe. No marks,” Lance breathes when Keith nips at his collarbone. Keith whines low in his throat, but he complies and soothes the spot with his tongue instead.

Which, obviously, doesn’t do Lance any better favors.

“Up, up,” Lance pants, and Keith complies. Lance buries a hand in his hair, the other wrapping around his waist, and tugs him down for another searing kiss.

And then his phone rings again.

“Lance,” Keith mumbles.

Lance elects freely to ignore it and chases Keith’s mouth.

“Lance.” Keith digs under the pillow and pulls Lance’s phone out. _The Mothership is calling._ “You should answer this.”

Lance groans loudly and reluctantly takes the phone. He can’t very well explain to Keith he’s been ignoring his mom for, oh, uh…Hm, he doesn’t remember. That’s a foreboding sign.

“I can’t believe you’d rather have me answer my mom than make out with you.”

“It’s midnight. I don’t know much about moms, but it seems important,” Keith shrugs. He rolls off Lance into the pillows and breathes deeply.

Lance takes a moment to gather his wits, wipe Keith off his lips, and steel himself against his mother’s imminent yelling.

“Mamá?” he answers, clearing his throat.

For a moment, there’s no reply. Then, the clatter of something, like a cup onto a table.

“Leandro,” his mother says. “How are you?”

Lance closes his eyes and feels his breath leave him for an entirely different reason.

“I’m fine,” he replies, careful to answer in Spanish after a glance at Keith still beside him, playing with a loose thread on the heavy decorative duvet cover. “Why are you calling me so late?”

“Pidge set up a Google alert on my computer, you know,” she says. Lance, scowls, then realizes she can’t see and drops it. “Am I not allowed to worry about my youngest son, off in Hollywood doing God knows what God knows where?”

“I— _yes,_ of course, Mamá. But we’re really busy, and I—”

“You’re never too busy to talk to your mother. That’s what we agreed when I let you stay. Tell me truly, _mijo_. How are you feeling?”

Lance turns to his side and half-buries his head into a pillow, keeping one eye open to watch Keith stare at the ceiling.

“I… I’m getting through it. It’s just a rough spot,” he says carefully. Keith glances at him curiously, his eyes half-closed from sleep.

Mood: officially ruined. Even from Miami, Rosa McClain can cockblock him.

“I can tell it’s late for you,” she sighs, her breath crackling over the phone.

“You, too.”

“When are you getting back from New York City?”

“We’re leaving right after recording Slav’s show.”

“Alright. You’re going to call me when you get home, and you’re going to tell me everything. Can you do that, Leandro?”

Lance bites his lip. Guilt sludges through his veins at his mom’s defeated voice. He might as well.

“I promise.”

“Good. Please get some sleep.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you, too, _mijo._ ”

The phone clicks dead. Lance lets it fall onto the bedspread, not bothering to attempt to find a charger. He rubs his eyes, then glances over to find Keith fast asleep on top of the covers.

His heart catches in his chest. His mind flashes back to the movie night, when Keith fell asleep so quickly on his chest. Jeez, the guy must not catch a wink.

He hauls himself up off the bed and around to the other side. Not minutes ago, Keith was the hottest person to ever occupy the earth. Now, he looks soft and sweet, curled in on himself. Lance smiles for a moment, just staring at him.

“Keith,” he whispers, nudging him gently on the shoulder. “Keith, get under the covers.”

Perhaps because he’s deliriously tired, Keith lets Lance maneuver him until he can tuck the sheets snug around him. He sets Keith’s book on the nightstand and wanders to the other side to flick off the last light, bathing the room in darkness and the distant life of New York City.

Amidst the faint car horns and passing lights, Lance sits on the edge of the bed and looks. Keith is…almost peaceful. Small, with a scrunched nose and eyelashes fanned over his cheeks. A new side of him, one Lance has never seen in the movies.

He’ll steal one last moment before…Well, his original plan didn’t work, because now here he is, and Keith didn’t say if he was alright with sharing a bed. That’s intimate stuff, and he’s made it clear that he has, like, boundaries.

He reaches out, resting his fingertips on Keith’s open palm on the pillow. One last touch. And then he’ll…

But when he begins to pull away, Keith grabs loosely at his wrist, and Lance freezes. Keith’s otherwise still asleep, his breath even and deep, not a flicker of emotion across his face. Still, his lithe fingers encircle him featherlight.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Lance climbs under the covers, careful not to jostle Keith’s touch. When he finally relaxes against the mattress, Keith inhales deeply and retracts his hand to tuck it against his own chest.

Lance doesn’t question it. Won’t question it, because if he opens that Pandora’s box, he’s got to open fifty more. He imagines what Keith would say, were he awake: _“You’ve already told me you like to cuddle, and where else would you sleep? The floor? It’s okay, Lance. Why bother leaving? It doesn’t have to be weird.”_

Yeah, that sounds about right. Yep. So, really, who is Lance to say no? All he can do is let himself look in wonder until his hammering heart settles into a soft drumbeat, and he breathes in vanilla and something woody until sleep pulls him under.

 

. . .

 

Waking up with Keith tangled in his limbs is an entirely new sensation Lance stows under lock and key in the archive.

Lance wakes up like this: to the rustle of something warm against his chest, to an arm slung over his waist, to two ankles more than he owns. As the fog dissipates from his overtired mind, he cracks open his eyes to a wild head of black hair, the knots and tangles matted with sleep on Lance’s bare skin. It’s a good match, he thinks. Brown skin against black hair.

The arm around his waist tightens and the ankles on his shift. Keith inhales a heavy breath when Lance brings a tentative hand around to rest on his hair. As he cards his fingers through the soft strands, Keith sighs contentedly.

“Time ‘s it?” he mumbles.

Keith is softer around the edges in the morning. Open to cuddling. No longer giving Lance permission but taking what he needs. Like an octopus. A compliant, Keith-shaped octopus.

Lance digs his phone out of the pillows.

“Almost six a.m.,” he whispers, afraid to break the tension.

Keith groans, tightens his grip to a squeeze, then relaxes and rolls off Lance.

“Gym,” he mutters, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

“Fuck the gym.” Lance reaches out for Keith’s bicep, lightly pulling him backwards. Keith freezes and turns back to look at Lance, the hand lazily rubbing his eyes falling to his lap.

“No, I—” he starts, suddenly much less sleep-rattled than before. “I should go.”

He takes his arm out of Lance’s loose grasp and slides off the bed, padding quickly away to the bathroom. Lance stares after him, barely registering his absence in his mind.

Lance’s call time isn’t for another hour. He frowns, sleep overtaking him once more, and turns into the lingering warmth of Keith on the sheets. When he wakes up again, Keith is still gone.

 

. . .

 

Here’s a step-by-step guide on one method of damage control, the Galra Records way:

Step one: ignore the frantic press and fans altogether. Step two: choose the appropriate social media account on which to control the damage. Step three: find a good photo, preferably controversy free. Something like a kiss on the cheek or a dog. It should be domestic and offer the fans what they want—a window into their private lives. Step four: post it with a nice caption. Maybe a sponsored one, even. Essentially, the goal is to create a diversion.

_@lanceymcclain – the face of a man who caved to my desire to create a dog Instagram. Go follow Kosmo @kosmo_kogane. [Attached: Keith frowning while Lance kisses him on the cheek. In the background, Pidge sticks out her tongue.]_

Lance doesn’t even remember when they took that. It must be recent, but his eyes are glazed over as he sends it onto the Internet.

“Does that work?” he asks, sliding his phone across the table between his and Hunk’s respective bowls of cereal. On the other side, Coran picks it up, twirls his mustache, and smiles, albeit a little less enthusiastically than normal.

“Sorry, lad,” he says, handing the phone back.

“We’re good,” Lance shrugs.

Allura returns to the table, taking the seat beside Romelle and setting an apple in front of Lance.

“I saw Instagram,” she says, biting into her own apple. “Does Pidge approve?”

As Pidge giggles, Lance replies, “Are you kidding? It’s Pidge’s life mission to photobomb any couple’s gross PDA photo.”

“How was the hotel room, by the way?” She tilts her head, her smile becoming mirthful. Romelle’s eyes widen as Lance chokes, and then Keith wanders into the breakfast lounge, hands shoved into his sweatpants pockets.

“Good morning, my boy!” Coran greets, clapping Keith on the shoulder when he approaches the table.

“Hey,” Keith says. His eyes meet Lance’s across the table, and they both smile. Allura hides a giggle behind her apple. “Kolivan set something up—”

“I’ve already got it on my calendar, Keith. Kolivan has impeccable color-coding skills. Will you be off, then?”

Keith nods, grabbing the apple from before Lance. Lance squawks in protest, but Keith just takes a bite.

“But you won’t forget that thing, Keith?” Coran asks.

“Nah, I won’t,” Keith says. “See you guys later. Bye, Lance.”

He backs away from the table, tossing the apple in his palm, and saunters out of the room.

“Wait,” Hunk starts. “What are _we_ doing today?”

“Oh, well, about that.” Lance can’t figure out if he trusts the twinkle in Coran’s eye.

 

 

“Oh, this is the _best_ photo thingy we’ve ever done,” Pidge says as she twirls in front of the floor length mirror, checking out her bright green jumpsuit from every angle. “We’re matching! Matching jumpsuits!”

Allura, with her silver hair piled delicately on top of her head, tugs at the lapels of pink jumpsuit and tilts her head to see the smudges of pink along her cheekbones. Hunk, too, looks fucking cool in a yellow one and matching headband.

“Ladies and gents,” Lance announces, bursting from behind the racks of clothes. “A ten has arrived.”

He strides ahead of the rest of them and poses the _fuck_ out of his blue jumpsuit. Allura laughs while Lance and Hunk chest bump each other.

Coran appears to lead them out of wardrobe into the studio area, where a white backdrop is rolled out in front of several box lights.

“What are we even doing, anyway?” Hunk asks, glancing from the peculiar jumpsuits to the plain background.

“Ah! That’s where things get interesting!” Coran says. “Intern, fetch the weapons.”

“The…weapons?” Hunk looks around warily again.

A person with a clipboard zips off to the far wall, then drags a plastic crate back over to them. With a grunt, they set it before Coran’s feet and he pops the lid off.

“ _Nerf guns!_ ” Pidge hollers.

Yellow-and-black Nerf guns fill the box, everything from a small pistol to an enormous thing with a 30-dart drum attachment.

“Picture this,” Coran says, holding his hands out before him. “The Voltron robot, an enormous mecha built for battle, drops off its pilots on a base filled with combatant enemies.”

Pidge pulls out a pistol-like gun and laughs maniacally.

“The enemies are armed, but so are you.” Coran waves with a flourish at the box. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it—”

“Aw, sweet! N-Strike Modulus ECS-10!” Lance crows, holding the gun out in front of him. “Pidge, watch this.”

Lance aims through the scope at the white backdrop and pulls the trigger. The dart whistles through the air and hits the backdrop smack in the center, an orange spot on white.

Pidge squeals in delight and shoots her pistol, but it doesn’t go nearly as far as his. When Lance winks at her, she shoves the barrel of the gun into his gut.

“Ow!”

“Don’t wink at me!”

“But your gun is so tiny!”

Coran’s attempt at a demonstration dissolves when Pidge grabs a ton of darts, stuffs them into her jumpsuit pocket, and takes off after Lance. They would have gotten away, too, if it weren’t for Allura capturing Pidge mid-run and dragging her back to the box.

“Pilots!” she demands. “Stand down!”

Lance pouts and shuffles back to the group. Allura picks out an automated bow-and-dart contraption and Hunk digs the enormous machine with the 30-dart drum out of the bottom of the bin.

“Yeah, buddy!” He grips the handle and aims it towards the backdrop.

“Okay, okay, hold off,” Coran says. “We have an actual photoshoot to do.”

The photographer steps up behind the box lights as Coran crowds all four of them onto the backdrop.

“Before you guys have your fun,” she says, fiddling with the settings on the camera, “we’re going to get some shots of you guys posing with the guns.”

Photoshoots, Lance knows how to do. It’s safe territory. No matter what Galra Records throws at him, he can pose his way through it and come out looking damn good on the other side. And with Nerf guns?

The photographer puts the camera to her face and Lance cocks the gun, aiming it directly at the lens with the rest of the band.

“Perfect,” she says. The camera shutter echoes through the studio.

They continue like that, cycling through different poses, from aiming at an imaginary figure to aiming at each other.

“Alright, individual shots now,” the photographer says.

“Heh. Get it? Shots,” Lance says, aiming and pulling the trigger at Pidge. It hits her square in the chest, and she turns on him with an expression of pure rage.

“Face my wrath!” she cries, releasing a shower of darts at Lance.

With a laugh, he darts away, aiming behind him pathetically. A shutter clicks again.

“Hunk, protect me!” Lance says as he dives behind the big guy.

“I can’t aim at Pidge!” 

“But you have mega darts! Don’t be a wimp!”

Instead of getting individual shots, it continues like that. The photographer follows them around the studio as they shoot darts at each other, from the actual backdrop to behind the clothes racks and makeup chairs. Assistants scuttle out of the way as Lance careens around a random set piece and howls a warrior call, aiming his rifle at Allura’s back.

“You’ll pay!” Allura yells, whipping around with her bow. The camera clicks, capturing a shot of them both aiming at each other.

A minute later, Hunk peeks nervously from behind a clothes rack for the little green rascal prowling around somewhere. From the camera sounds, it seems like she might be on the backdrop.

“Okay, buddy,” Lance whispers. “Here’s the game plan. I go out first and catch her off guard with my slick skills. Then you come out—boom! Hit them with the big gun! Take them out once and for all!”

“I’m not sure about this—”

“Go, go!” Lance shouts, jumping out from their hiding place and aiming his gun towards the backdrop. Which is empty. “Huh?”

“You fool!” someone says from behind him. When Lance whirls around, it’s to Pidge aiming her pistol right at his forehead, Allura a few paces behind her already pelting Hunk with darts.

“No!” The camera snaps a picture.

“Admit defeat!”

“Never!”

Lance raises his gun, but when he pulls the trigger, a metallic _click_ rings instead of a dart. Pidge grins devilishly, pulls her trigger, and smacks a dart square into his forehead.

Lance yowls and crumples to the floor, clutching at his forehead. Pidge cackles and places a foot on his stomach. The photographer captures it neatly.

“Okay, okay. Individual shots?” she begs, gesturing toward the backdrop.

“Yeah,” Lance nods, letting the back of his head hit the floor. “I think we can do that now.”

He steps onto the background for individual shots last. Around this time, the energy fades from photoshoots, but he stands tall with his Nerf gun all the same.

“Good,” she says, snapping a few shots with the Nerf gun on his shoulder. “Turn a little—yup. Work that, Lance.”

“That’s my default setting,” Lance says. The camera snaps some more.

A few poses later, he begs Hunk to roll him some more darts and refills his gun, crouched on the white floor.

“You’re not going to hit me,” the photographer warns.

“Relax.” He sets the gun on his shoulder and aims it off into the studio. “I’ll hit… Babe?”

He lets the gun drop to his side, because Keith is here, touting a Nerf gun and sporting a cherry red jumpsuit.

“That’s Keith to you,” he says, aiming his gun at Lance.

“How did you even…?”

“Coran told me Nerf guns. Who would say no to Nerf guns?”

He steps onto the backdrop, kicking away the scattered darts to stand a foot away from Lance, the gun inches away from his face. _Snap._ Someone in makeup and hair styled him with a low bun, chunks falling free and framing his face. He looks like he always does—so blindingly gorgeous Lance struggles to focus on anything else.

“Take the kill shot, Keith!” Pidge yells.

Keith smirks, and he does. The dart pings harmlessly off his nose, and only then does feeling return to Lance’s limbs.

“Hey! That’s not fair!” he says, jumping to his feet.

Keith aims again, but Lance figures out he isn’t the best shot. He’s quick on his feet, though, sidestepping every single one of Lance’s shots.

“Lance, get him!” Allura shouts.

“I’m trying!” Lance yells back.

Pidge tosses Keith her pistol and Keith turns around with two. The odds are stacked against him, but Lance will not lose to Keith fucking Kogane. Not today!

He steps back once as Keith moves forward, dodging shots and aiming his own. Keith puts up a fight, but even as Lance fights for his own, he smiles and laughs. A feeling courses through him—not one foreign to him, but one that makes him forget yesterday. Forget the show and the responses. Forget everything except Keith’s mouth on his against a bathroom tile wall or itchy hotel sheets.

He wakes from his own thoughts again to Keith not a yard away from him.

In lieu of an actual move, Lance charges forward and tackles Keith to the ground, their jumpsuits a blur of purple on the way down.

“Oof!” Keith lands on his ass, but he makes a quick recovery to wrestle Lance, even with the guns still in his hands.

They tousle for a second before Keith manages to overpower Lance and roll them around. _Snap_.

Only then does he realize the position they’re in: Keith straddles his hips, breathing hard with both guns aimed at Lance’s face. Lance lays limply beneath him, eyes wide. Oh, shit. Last night invades his mind instantly.

“Oh, right,” he wheezes. “You box.”

Keith smirks, leaning down until Lance can feel his breath fanning him. _Snap_.

“Any last words?” Keith asks.

“Nope,” Lance says. Instead, he pulls Keith down the rest of the way with a hand on the back of his neck and kisses him hard. _Snap._ Keith’s guns clatter to the floor, and he brings his hands to cup Lance’s cheeks.

“Hunk, cover my eyes!” Pidge yelps.

Keith opens his mouth and goes for more, but Lance pushes him back a hair’s breadth, opening his eyes to find Keith’s closed above him. His heart pounds against his chest at the sight. God, if they were anywhere else—

“You have two guns and I have one,” Lance whispers into Keith’s lips. “Pidge has none. You wanna go after her together?”

It takes him a moment, but that signature Keith smirk unfurls and he opens his eyes with a glint Lance has grown to love.

“Hell yeah, sharpshooter,” he whispers back.

“On three,” Lance says. “One, two—”

Keith gives him another peck on three, then snatches his guns as he rolls off Lance.

“Face our wrath, Pidge!” Lance screams, aiming his gun at the tiny scoundrel on the other side of the camera.

She squeals as the three Nerf guns pelt her with spray of darts. Hunk follows suit with his mega darts, and even Allura joins in. The four of them chase her around the studio, much to the chagrin of the crew.

Something distracts Lance, though. A thought at the back of his head, something he can’t quite shake. It might have something to do with Keith in a red jumpsuit, the top buttons undone to reveal his collarbones. It might have something to do with the glances Hunk and Allura throw each other over their heads when they think Lance isn’t looking.

It might have to do with the Keith’s beaming expression, his canines glinting in the box lights, as he presses Nerf darts into Lance’s open palm. It might be that.

_Snap._

 

. . .

 

Keith leaves when they get back to the hotel, picked up by a nondescript black car. As the driver stows away his suitcase, Keith steps towards the curb, where Lance scuffs the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk. The back door slams shut, echoing through the parking garage, and then the driver’s side door.

“Text me when you get back,” Lance says, looking down at Keith even more than usual with the curb between them. Keith tilts his head back. Without direct thought, Lance rearranges his bangs away from his forehead, tucking a lock behind his ears.

Keith raises an eyebrow. “What’s that for?”

“Shut up.” Lance untucks the hair and messes it into Keith’s eyes again. Keith laughs, wiping it away himself. “Are you gonna text me or are you gonna be an asshole?”

“Asshole,” Keith replies immediately. “No, I will. But I’m not riding back in a ridiculous private plane, so it’ll take longer.”

“Don’t call it ridiculous. You enjoyed the perks of being at the top of the Galra roster.”

The car door opens, and the driver calls, “Mr. Kogane?”

“Be right there,” Keith says.

“You better hurry up, Mr. Kogane,” Lance teases.

In lieu of a reply, Keith tangles his hand in the front of Lance’s shirt and tugs him down until their lips meet in a chaste kiss. It’s more tender than Lance expects and sort of blindsides him when they part, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. It tastes like Keith bringing him cough syrup or hooking an ankle around his beneath a McDonald’s table.

“Good luck on Slav and the single,” Keith says when he lets Lance go, smoothing down the fabric again. “Don’t let Slav kill you like he did when I went on.”

“No ‘I know you’ll do well, Lance’? ‘I’m proud of you for releasing your second single on your second album’?”

“Nope,” Keith says, but the corner of his mouth lifts anyway. He steps away from the curb. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Yeah,” is all Lance can say. “Say hi to Kosmo for me.”

Keith nods, throws Lance a bigger smile, and climbs into the car. It peels away from the curb, up the ramp, and out into the city beyond.

As Lance trudges his way back to his hotel room, he frowns at the strange black feeling in his chest. It drags at his feet, like he might… Well, obviously, Lance. You’ve spent the last forever with the guy. Technically, this is the first time they haven’t been in the same city in almost two months. Obviously, you’re going to miss him.

He slides his card into the hotel room door and pushes it open, ready to flop onto the bed until he musters up the energy to wash his face. It already feels weird without Keith’s suitcase, which is just ridiculous because they spent all of one night together.

His plans are all interrupted, though, when the lights flick on and Lance finds Hunk, Pidge, and Allura lounged around the room.

“Lance, you’re back!” Pidge greets from where she has her feet propped up on the desk. “How’s Mr. Romance?”

“On his way to the airport,” Lance says, hopping onto the bed with Allura. She rolls over to face him, her hair draping over the pillows.

“Oh, is he?” she hums.

“…Yes?”

No one replies, just look at him expectantly with this same mischievous eye. Except for Pidge, but no one can expect Pidge to look anything but wrathful and/or sleepy.

“Alright.” Lance sits up, narrowing his eyes at his bandmates. “What’s up with you guys? You’re all acting funky, and that’s saying something for Voltron.”

Hunk, who looks like he might burst with glee, sits up, too.

“Just for the record, I’m not a part of this gossip,” Pidge points out, right before Hunk squeals, “Just tell us, Lance!”

Lance blanks. Allura and Hunk look at him with twin expressions of excited anticipation, hands clasped before them.

“Tell… what?”

“Don’t play coy!” Allura says. “We haven’t seen you like this since Plaxum! Let it out, Lance.”

“I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” Lance says with an empty laugh, “but I don’t have anything to say. Are the in-room snacks going to be comped?”

He slides off the bed and heads towards the mini-fridge. When he grabs a bottle of soda and turns around, Hunk and Allura still give him unnerving stares.

“What?”

“Oh, I can’t take it anymore!” Allura gushes. “Lance, we’re so happy you and Keith are actually in a relationship!”

Lance practically sprays soda out of his nose as he doubles over coughing. He hacks it out for a few more seconds before balancing himself on the edge of the desk and wheezing, “Me and Keith are _what?”_

Hunk’s smile falters, but only slightly. “We’re your best buddies, Lance! Of course we know you guys are, like, actually together now.”

“When are you going to share with Coran and Sendak?” Allura asks. “It’s so exciting to see you finally happy with someone again!”

“Me and—no, no, no!” Lance wipes soda from his shirt and shakes his head frantically. “Keith and me? In an actual relationship? No, pshh, no way!”

At that, the beaming smiles slide off their faces. Pidge’s eyes go wide behind her glasses.

“What do you mean?” Allura’s eyebrows knit together. “You’re not joking with us, are you?”

“No, if anything, you’re joking with me! Keith and I are not together, guys. That’d be super weird.”

The three sit in stunned silence. Lance’s eyes flit between the confusion etched on each of their faces.

“But we caught you making out in the rehearsal room. And at the party. And, like, I can’t even name the rest of the places,” Hunk says.

Lance shrugs and takes another swig of soda, hoping to hide his grimace. Something in his chest twinges, something he’d rather push away than examine right in this moment.

“It’s… complicated,” he forces out. “But don’t worry, guys. We’re not—we’re not together.” He laughs, and Pidge squints. “Can you imagine?”

“Pretty well, actually,” Pidge says slowly.

Lance holds his hands up and tries on an easy smile.

“Seriously, don’t worry. He’s not into me that way, and I—we’re not getting in the way of Sendak’s master plan.”

“Then what’s with all the smooching?” Hunk asks, perplexed.

“None of your earwax, that’s what.” Lance jumps back onto the bed with Allura and sets the soda down on the side table. “Relax. I’ve got it under control. Who wants to watch shitty late night hotel TV?”

Allura side-eyes him, her lips pinched into a pout. Lance picks up the remote and tosses it to her.

Finally, she relents and turns on the TV. “House Hunters Beaver Dams?”

“A classic,” Lance says, digging into the covers.

As the noise of squabbling house hunters fills the room, Pidge clambers into the bed next to Hunk.  The topic seems forgotten—at least out loud.

Lance pulls the sheets over him and rests his head against Allura’s shoulder, letting her play with his hair. He doesn’t take out his phone to check for texts from Keith, not once the whole night. But he can’t stop turning over his friends’ words in his mind.

It’s laughable, really. Keith and Lance, actually dating? No, not when Keith has made it so clear. Lance bites back the drag in his chest and nestles in further, forcing his mind from stupid Keith to beaver dams.

 

. . .

 

From Keith. _You’ll get this when you wake up. Good luck on Slav’s show today._

Lance blearily rubs his eyes and rereads it. The clock at the top of his phone reads 5:54 in the morning, only six minutes before he actually has to wake up. As the sleep seeps out of his brain, warmth fills its place.

From Lance. _ur text woke me, dummy._

From Lance. _And thanks :* how was ur flight?_

From Keith. _What the fuck is that?_

From Lance. _A kiss emoji!!!_

Keith takes a little longer to respond, so Lance rolls over and stumbles out of bed. The rest of the band still sleeps peacefully. Allura snores on the other side of the bed, splayed on top of the sheets in the late spring heat of the city. Lance snaps a quick photo and continues on his way to the bathroom.

From Keith. _:*_

Lance audibly coos in the safety of the bathroom. When he looks up, he finds himself smiling softly. He pinches his mouth into a frown and flattens it into nothing.

But he can’t help imagining Keith is here again, waiting back in the bedroom like yesterday. Shirtless again, the phantom touch of his arm over Lance’s waist. And now he’s thinking of Keith back in Los Angeles, maybe dropping onto his own bed after a long flight home. Maybe he showered the airplane away, maybe his hair is wet like Lance remembers from that one party.

Lance bites his lip. Fuck, he doesn’t miss Keith. He doesn’t regret his mom interrupting their night, and he doesn’t, absolutely doesn’t, wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t called.

He slaps both hands over his face, rubs vigorously, and chases that whole train of thought away.

An hour later, the four of them shuffle their way downstairs with Coran leading the pack. Lance continues checking his phone on the way to Slav’s venue. And through their debriefing. And their practice run. And soundcheck. And…

“Hello, earth to Lance?” Pidge asks, ducking down so her face comes into Lance’s view.

“What? Oh, Pidge!”

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt you. Please, keep texting.”

She ducks away and collapses into a makeup chair, and Lance’s eyes wander back to his phone.

From Keith. _But hippos are hands down the best animal and you can’t deny it to my face._

From Lance. _wrong!!! why am I dating u again?! it’s a lion, don’t deny it to MY face_

From Keith. _When you come back I’m printing out a Wikipedia article and taping it to your face. Hippos are natural born killers. And they’re cute_

From Lance. _huh that sounds like someone I know_

It’s only when Lance sets the phone down to let a Romelle descend upon him that Lance realizes just what the fuck he sent to Keith.

“Wait, wait, wait!” he says, pushing the makeup brush away and lunging at his phone again. He types out another text so fast his fingers shake.

From Lance. _i mean! not that we’re actually dating! i just wanted to win an argument!_

The reply comes immediately, much to Lance’s wired nerves.

From Keith. _I know._

Nothing else.

Lance sighs in relief and sets it down again. Last night’s conversation runs wild through his mind. But they’re not dating. They’re friends with an agreement. Like, benefits, you know. No strings, or whatever they say. That’s normal.

 _“Don’t make this weird,_ ” he’d said.

Don’t fucking make this weird, Lance.

 

. . .

 

Late night television. Either the bane or the highlight of a musician’s experience. If you land a spot on one of the Jimmy’s, it’s a little boring, but the audiences are fantastic for the ego. Especially if you’re Lance, and you bask in the excited shouting every time you open your mouth.

Late Night Reality Talk with Slav? Fucking something else.

They wait on the wing of the stage, watching Slav’s gangly figure waving dramatically behind the enormous desk. Stagehands bustle around, whispering into headsets and squinting at clipboards as Lance peers into the tiny TV relaying what the cameras record.

“In this reality, there are guests on the show,” Slav says, words thick with an accent Lance still can’t quite place.

He tightens his grip on Pidge’s shoulders as the audience laughs a little canned laughter. Pidge swats them away, only for Hunk’s hands to replace them, much to her tiny chagrin.

The Slav on the TV cracks another joke before introducing them, and a stage hand sweeps past, one hand on her headset and the other gesturing for the band to follow.

“When this band came on the show last time, I calculated a 100 percent chance they would return after their smash hit, ‘Crystal Venom,’” Slav continues. “Today, they’re back to promote two singles and their second album, _The Return of Voltron._ Here’s Voltron!”

As the crowd erupts in cheers, the stagehand whispers, “You’re on.”

And they’re on.

Lance leads the way, striding across the neon-lit stage with a flashy smile and easy gait. Through the blinding lights, he spots the teenagers falling over themselves in the stands. Some of them they met beforehand, crowding against the metal gate separating the CBS parking lot from the street.

Slav claps, too, as Lance seats himself on the leather sofa in the spot closest to the adjacent desk. Next is Allura, leaning into Lance’s arm; then Pidge, crossing her legs beneath her in true uncaring Pidge fashion; and Hunk, waving politely to the audience.

“Voltron! Welcome Voltron,” Slav says, leaning forward enthusiastically. He directs his owlish smile right at Lance.

“Long time no see, Slav,” Lance replies, mimicking Slav’s pose. “What’s it been, a year?”

“A year and eight days, to be precise.”

“A year and _nine_ days,” Pidge corrects. “Well, according to my calculations.”

The audience snickers as Slav balks, frantically counting on his fingers. A slow smile unfurls under his bird-like nose again.

“You’re right,” he says. “Well, I guess there is a universe where I can be wrong about something.”

Pidge grins smugly and Lance leans over Allura to slap a high five, which earns another cheer from the crowd. God, they just eat that shit up. Good thing Lance does, too.

“What have you guys been doing over the year?” Slav asks, directing the conversation smoothly.

“It’s been an absolutely wonderful year,” Allura gushes. “ _The Rise of Voltron_ did incredibly well. We did the Rise Tour in North America and Europe and got to see so many of our lovely fans.”

At ‘lovely fans’, more yelling ensues. _Phoenix_ makes its way over the din, and Lance’s jaw drops.

“Did someone just say they came here all the way from Phoenix?” he asks, squinting at the audience. A girl in the middle-back jump up and down frantically.  “Holy s—I mean, that’s so cool!”

“Lance is about to crack some joke about his beautiful face being worth the plane ticket,” Hunk interrupts.

“I was definitely _not_ about to do that,” Lance huffs, but he was. He totally was.

“Lance, in every universe, you were about to do that,” Slav says. “In fact, I did a prediction chart with the audience before your arrival. Sven, the chart, please!”

Sven, Slav’s loyal sidekick with an equally indecipherable accent, rolls out a large pad of butcher paper from stage left. _Predictions,_ Sven had scrawled on top. He takes off a strip of paper to reveal the first prediction.

  1. _Lance McClain makes a narcissistic joke._



Pidge cackles so hard she almost falls off the couch, only caught by Hunk and Allura's hands on her shoulders.

"I'm offended!" Lance cries.

“Did we get it right?” Slav asks the audience. They cheer. “Check if off, Sven!”

Lance crosses his arms, but he’s gotta admit… It’s a good one.

“So,” Slav continues. He pulls something from under his desk and props a cardboard version of _The Return_ on the desk.

As the audience whoops at the album cover, Lance’s mouth sours at the image staring back at him. It’s still no fucking Voltron robot, that’s for sure.

“Your new album is _The Return of Voltron,_ which comes out in two weeks,” he says with that owlish grin. “I’m calculating a 76 percent chance this will be as great if not greater than _The Rise,_ based off the Grammy for Best New Artist and the perception of the first album.”

“That’s…generous,” Hunk says slowly. “It’s not 100 percent?”

“We’ll raise it to 78.” Slav pauses. “Well, 77. How has the reaction been so far?”

“Incredible,” Allura replies. “So far, our family and friends have listened to it. Pidge’s brother is over the moon about ‘Reunion,’ which we’ll be performing for the first time in a few moments.”

“And Keith, my boyfriend—” Lance’s voice hitches, and he looks down for a split second before meeting Slav’s piercing gaze again. “He visited us in the studio one day, and he—”

“Ah, there’s another prediction!” Slav cries, slamming his hands on the table. Lance jolts. “Sven, check off ‘Lance mentions Keith Kogane’!”

Sven the Traitor takes off another strip of paper and checks it off. Lance sinks back into the couch as the audience erupts in the loudest holler of the night, terrible butterflies swarming his stomach.

“I should have seen that coming,” he mutters, just loud enough to be picked up by the lavalier pinned to his chest. He hopes the cameras at least don’t pick up the dark blush creeping up his neck. “Back to the album—”

“How is Keith?” Slav interrupts, a twinkle in his eye. “He’s around the band so much, I almost think he’s an honorary member of Voltron.”

Allura laughs and nods.

“He left yesterday to go back home,” Lance says.

“Is this—correct me if I’m wrong, but Sven is a big fan and follows Voltron more than I do. But is this the first time you two have been apart since you met?”

Alright, if the blush wasn’t visible before, it definitely is now. Lance scratches at the back of his neck and bites his lip.

“It is,” he admits. The audience coos.

“And how do you feel?”

“I mean, it’s barely been a day. I think I’m fine—”

“They’ve been texting literally nonstop,” Pidge interjects. Lance shoots her a look, but she shrugs as if to say _just giving the fans what they want!_ “Honestly, they’re so cute it makes me want to vomit.”

“Pidge!” Lance chastises.

“No, keep going! I’m calculating a 100 percent chance your fans are begging for this information,” Slav says.

“You’d be right, Slav. Here’s one more—”

“I think we’re good, Pidge.” Lance leans over Allura again and flicks her on the knee. “What about that album, Slav!”

Slav, though, smiles and leans back in his chair.

“Ah, young love,” he muses. “Sven, check off ‘Slav makes a profound observation in the space of a half hour late night talk show.’”

Sven checks it off. Slav folds his hands in front of him and smiles that strange smile again.

“Sometimes, there are couples made to be together in every reality,” he says. “If I’m correct—which I _am_ in every reality _and_ universe—Lance McClain and Keith Kogane are one of those.”

Lance bites his lip to keep his screaming brain in check. He looks at Slav and the audience, at their awestruck expressions, and bursts to yell, _It’s all fake! For sales! For this exact reason!_

But a second thought blasts into the front of his brain, blocking the first. The last time Lance saw Keith, standing by a curb, soft hair tucked behind his ear.

The Keith no one else gets to see. The Keith Lance kissed and cuddled. Lance’s shoulder relax, and he smiles before he can stop himself. This game, he can play easily.

“Yeah, I’d be willing to bet money on that one,” he sighs. “Sometimes it feels like we’ve known each other forever. We met at the Grammy’s and I wanted to hate him, but even then… I saw him at the bar and I just—I just knew, you know?”

“And how did you know?”

It’s a question he’s heard before. Pidge opens her mouth to reply with a stock joke, but Lance beats her to it.

“He told me he was offended I didn’t flirt with him. Obviously, I had to make it my mission. And…and now we’re here.”

It’s closer to the truth than anyone but the two of them realize.

For a tense moment, Slav doesn’t reply. He just stares, eyes wide and sallow lips parted. Slowly, he nods and a smile curls again, less owlish and more genuine.

“True love,” he says. Then, he picks up the cardboard album cover again and turns to the audience. “After the break, Voltron will perform the two singles off _The Return of Voltron_ , ‘The Hunted’ and ‘Reunion.’ You can pre-order the album now. Oh, and one more thing. Sven, check off the last prediction.”

Sven rips off the last strip of paper and draws a fat check mark next to _Pidge tries to correct Slav._

“A year and eight days _is_ the correct answer, Pidge. Try again next year.”

They shake hands. More stagehands usher them out stage right. Someone hands Lance his guitar. He steps out after the break and wonders just how correct Slav is in every reality.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pour one out for Lance, but also pour one out for Keith. And another for everyone who has to witness this. Especially Pidge. Also, originally the first scene had two beds instead of one, but, you know, I thought about it...and I thought about how integral the "only one bed" trope is, and you know what? I changed it. Allura and Pidge schemed even more than originally intended. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are so motivating and appreciated. Please share and reblog [this chapter post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/185662769811/love-song-in-c-minor-chapter-eight), and talk to me on my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/)! As always, thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Present Max is unbelievably excited for the next chapter.
> 
> Here's my [Tumblr](http://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com), and kudos and comments are appreciated and motivating ;).


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